THE  PRINCIPLES  AND  PROGRESS 
OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


^h^yip^ 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


•   ENGLISH  POETRY 

ITS    PRINCIPLES    AND    PROGRESS. 

WITH   REPRESENTATIVE  MASTERPIECES 

FROM   1390    TO   1917   AND 

WITH  NOTES 


CHARLES   MILLS   G,!\YLEY,  Litt.D.,  LL.D. 

PROFESSOR   OF   THE   ENGLISH   LANGUAGE  AND    LITERATURE 
IN   THE  UNIVERSITY   OF  CALIFORNIA 

C.    C.   YOUNG,  B.L. 

FORMERLY  HEAD  OF  THE   ENGLISH   DEPARTMENT  IN  THE 

LOWELL  HIGH   SCHOOL,   SAN   FRANCISCO^     ...  . 

AND  • .  . 

BENJAMIN    PUTNAM    KURTZ,  PILD^ 

PROFESSOR  OF   ENGLISH   IN  THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


NEW  EDITION 
REVISED  AND  ENLARGED 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 

I921 

All  rights  reserved 


905- 


COFYRIGHT,   1904,   1920, 

Bv  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set, up, and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1904. 
New  eUition,  revised  and  enlarged,  July,  1920. 


Nortooott  ilress 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

The  purpose  of  this  book  is  first  and  foremost  to  inspire 
young  people  with  a  love  of  poetry.  In  preparing  this  re- 
vised and  enlarged  edition  we  have  aimed  to  set  before  pupils 
in  our  high  schools  not  merely  poems  that  will  yield  enjoyment 
after  they  have  been  studied,  but  poems  that  one  cannot  help 
enjoying  on  first  acquaintance. 

In  order  that  the  book  may  be  of  value  for  the  entire  high 
school  course  we  have  been  at  particular  pains  to  include  a 
large  number  of  poems  suitable  for  pupils  of  the  first  and  sec- 
ond years.  With  these  years  especially  in  mind,  more  than  one 
half  of  the  material  has  been  selected.  With  the  more  ad- 
vanced pupils  in  mind,  we  have  added  to  the  poems  usually 
prescribed  as  requirements  for  entrance  to  college  a  large  num- 
ber worthy  on  their  own  account,  and  all  the  more  likely  to 
promote  a  love  of  poetry  because  they  are  not  staled  by  custom. 

In  the  choice  of  materials  we  have  had  the  kind  assistance  of 
over  a  hundred  experienced  and  successful  high  school  teachers 
of  English.  Carefully  weighing  their  recommendations,  we 
have  omitted  from  our  former  list  three  or  four  poems  easily 
procurable  elsewhere,  and  have  included  some  fifty  poets  not 
represented  before  and  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  addi- 
tional poems.  Of  the  newly  inserted  poets  and  poems,  about 
half  supplement  the  material  illustrative  of  the  periods  coy- 
ered  in  the  former  editions  of  the  book,  which  closed  with  Mat- 
thew Arnold.  The  poets  of  more  recent  periods,  some 
twenty-seven,  and  poems,  some  eighty  in  all,  no  less  cor- 
dially approved  by  our  consulting  committee,  have  been  added 
in  order  that  pupils  may  not  rest  in  the  conviction  that  Eng- 
lish poetry  ceased  with  Tennyson,  Browning,  and  jVrhold. 
The  tale  thus  resumed  with  Meredith,  Rossetti,  Morris,  and 


^-^2G8: 


VI  PREFACE 

Swinburne,  and  carried  down  to  the  present  day,  will,  we  are 
confident,  be  of  rare  and  inspiring  interest  and  value  to  teachers 
and  pupils  alike.  In  this  latter  effort  our  labors  have  been 
lightened  by  the  generous  cooperation  of  several  of  the  most 
representative  contemporary  poets. 

We  have,  in  general,  adhered  to  the  plan  of  the  former  book. 
The  design  is  to  provide  within  the  covers  of  one  volume  what 
is  usually  set  forth  in  three  volumes:  (i)  an  introduction  to 
the  Principles  of  Poetry;  (2)  a  survey  of  the  Progress  of 
English  Poetry  by  its  periods,  together  with  critical  sketches 
of  the  lives  and  works  of  the  poets  chosen  as  representative; 
(3)  as  much  as  possible  of  the  poetry  commonly  read  in  prep- 
aration for  entrance  to  American  universities,  and  such  other 
poems  as  are  illustrative  of  successive  hterary  periods  and 
adapted  to  the  requirements  of  an  introductory  course  in  Eng- 
lish masterpieces;  (4)  such  notes  as  will  aid  the  pupil  in  his 
study  of  the  poems  and  increase  his  abiUty  to  appreciate  and 
understand  poetry  not  thus  annotated. 

For  our  former  prefatory  essay  on  the  principles  of  poetry, 
intended  not  primarily  for  use  in  class  but  for  "teachers,  to 
to  be  retailed  to  younger  pupils  as  occasion  offers  and  discre- 
tion dictates,"  we  have  substituted  here  a  distinctively  ele- 
mentary Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Poetry.  This  Intro- 
duction covers  only  such  topics  as  are  essential  to  the  informa- 
tion of  high  school  pupils.  It  aims  to  present  the  material 
as  briefly  and  simply  as  possible,  but  still  with  something  of 
the  detail  befitting  a  subject  of  wide  scope,  something  of  the 
explanation  required  by  pupils  unfamiliar  with  the  study,  and 
something  of  the  literary  sympathy  and  delight  that  cannot 
be  conveyed  in  a  categorical  and  dry-as-dust  statement.  If 
the  student  is  encouraged  to  make  constant  reference  to  the 
illustrative  poems  mentioned  in  the  Introduction,  he  will  learn 
to  apply  the  principles  and  will  derive  keener  enjoyment  from 
poetry  better  understood.  At  the  request  of  teachers  the  more 
comprehensive  Principles  of  Poetry  mentioned  above  will 
presently  be  republished  in  enlarged  and  independent  form. 
It  may,  meanwhile,  be  consulted  in  the  earlier  editions  of  this 
book. 


\ 


PREFACE  VU 

The  chapters  on  the  Progress  of  English  Poetry  aim  to 
focus  in  one  study  the  theory  and  history  of  the  subject.  They 
introduce  each  Hterary  period  and  the  biographies  of  the  re- 
spective authors  with  a  more  general  account  of  the  char- 
acteristics and  tendencies  of  the  age.  In  the  special  criticism 
of  the  poems  by  which  each  author  is  represented  (whether  in 
the  text  or  the  notes)  consideration  has  been  given  not  only  to 
his  personal  and  historical  conditions  but  to  the  relation  of 
his  work  to  poetic  principles  and  the  development  of  national 
literature.  It  will  naturally  be  found  advisable  when  dealing 
with  younger  pupils  to  read  the  poems  in  order  of  simplicity, 
as  outlined  below.  But  even  so,  the  reading  of  the  poet's 
biography  should  precede  the  reading  of  his  poems,  and  in 
brief  and  appropriate  fashion  the  characteristics  of  the  period 
should  be  indicated  by  the  teacher.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
course  —  say,  during  the  last  term  of  the  senior  year  —  the 
historical  and  biographical  sections  should  be  read  in  review 
and  supplemented  by  the  study  of  some  general  school  history 
of  English  literature. 

Dramas,  epics,  and  metrical  romances  (such  as  those  of  Scott) 
have  not  been  included  in  this  volume  simply  because  their 
length  is  prohibitive.  The  same  considerations  have  com- 
pelled us  to  content  ourselves  with  only  two  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
King.  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  although  the  work  of  an 
American,  has  been  carried  over  from  the  former  edition  at 
the  request  of  teachers  and  for  the  convenience  of  students: 
the  theme  and  treatment  of  the  poem  are  such  that  it  readily 
finds  a  place  beside  other  narratives  of  chivalry  here  presented ; 
it  furnishes,  moreover,  an  excellent  opportunity  for  compari- 
son of  a  noble  American  production  with  poems  of  similar 
nature  by  English  writers.  One  other  American  poem  is  in- 
cluded and  one  poem  by  a  Canadian,  —  Seeger's  /  Have  a 
Rendezvous  with  Death  and  McCrae's  In  Flanders  Fields.  They 
could  not  be  omitted  from  any  collection  of  poems  of  the  World 
War.  From  The  Faerie  Queene,  Paradise  Lost,  Childe  Harold, 
In  Memoriam,  Dauber,  and  two  or  three  other  poems  too  long 
for  inclusion  as  wholes,  we  have  presented  excerpts.  The  rest 
of  our  poetic  specimens  are  printed  in  their  integrity. 


VIU  PREFACE 

In  order  to  preserve  their  historical  flavor  we  should  have 
preferred  to  retain  the  archaic  spelhng  of  the  older  poets,  but 
at  the  instance  of  many  excellent  teachers,  who  are  of  the  opinion 
that  such  practice  detracts  from  the  pupil's  appreciation  of  the 
poetry,  we  have  refrained.  The  spelling  has  been  uni- 
formly modernized,  except  in  the  case  of  Chaucer.  He  wrote 
nearly  two  centuries  before  any  of  the  other  poets  represented, 
and  his  orthography  is  part  of  the  historical  characteristic  of 
a  distant  age  and  is  essential  to  the  charm  of  his.  poems.  With 
Burns  the  Ayrshire  dialect  has,  of  course,  been  preserved,  and 
for  much  the  same  reason ;  he  would  not  be  Burns  without  it. 

In  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  volume  the  attempt  has  been 
made  to  keep  in  mind  a  few  definite  considerations.  First, 
Notes  are  for  the  student  and  should  he  strictly  practical.  Since 
they  will,  for  the  most  part,  be  used  by  young  people,  they  have 
been  made  on  the  basis  of  actual  experience  in  the  classroom. 
They  aim  to  give  nothing  but  what  the  student  can  use;  to 
leave  out  all  that  will  not  directly  aid  him  in  understanding 
and  appreciating  the  poem.  Second,  Notes  should  clear  up 
difficulties.  Though  inspiration  and  enjoyment  are  the  chief 
ends  of  poetry,  they  can  be  attained  only  if  the  reader  under- 
stand the  thought  of  the  poet  and  his  art,  and,  therefore,  the 
words  by  which  these  are  conveyed.  Third,  Notes  should  not 
tell  the  student  what  he  may  reasonably  he  expected  to  find  out 
for  himself.  Explanations  are  given  only  when  they  cannot 
with  readiness  and  economy  be  obtained  from  the  ordinary 
books  of  reference.  There  should  be  within  the  reach  of  every 
pupil  at  least  the  following  manuals:  an  English  dictionary, 
such  as  Webster's  International,  The  New  Standard,  or  The  Cen- 
tury, or  a  good  abridgment  for  his  own  desk,  such  as  Web- 
ster's Academic;  a  dictionary  of  classical  names  and  myths, 
or  some  complete  manual  of  mythology,  such  as  Gayley's 
Classic  Myths  in  English  Literature;  a  Bible,  if  possible  with  a 
concordance ;  and  a  good  History  of  English  Literature  with 
which  to  supplement  the  outline  given  in  this  book.  The 
information  easily  to  be  found  in  these  the  editors  have  tried 
not  to  duplicate  here.  Fourth,  Notes  should  he  adapted  to  the 
requirements   of  pupil   and   poem.     Chaucer  and  Burns,   with 


PREFACE  IX 

their  textual  peculiarities,  need  notes  entirely  different  from 
Milton  and  Pope  with  their  allusive  character,  or  Wordsworth 
and  Browning  with  their  subtlety  of  thought.  The  pupil  of 
lower  grade  requires  a  kind  of  help  different  from  that  de- 
manded by  his  seniors.  Some  of  the  simpler  poems  here  have 
accordingly  been  annotated,  not  with  few  notes  because  they 
are  simple,  but  with  ample  notes  because  presumably  the  pupil 
who  will  study  them  is  young.  Fifth,  Notes  should  he  sugges- 
tive. The  inability  to  realize  what  he  ought  to  see  in  a  poem, 
or  to  recognize  what  it  really  contains,  is  probably  the  chief 
drawback  with  the  immature  reader.  The  editors,  therefore, 
offer  no  apology  for  the  directive  questions  and  suggestions  of  the 
notes.  It  is  hoped  that  they  may  prove  of  real  advantage  to 
pupil  and  teacher.  Sixth,  Notes  are  valuable  only  as  a  means 
to  an  end,  —  that  the  reader  may  gain  the  greatest  possible 
pleasure  and  inspiration  from  the  poems  themselves.  In 
most  cases  he  should  endeavor  to  get  all  he  can  from  the  text 
before  resorting  to  the  notes  at  all. 

The  order  in  which  these  poems  are  studied  will  vary  with 
the  maturity  of  the  student  and  the  judgment  of  the  teacher. 
Pupils  of  the  third  and  fourth  years  and  general  readers  will 
not  infrequently  take  histories  and  texts  in  their  chronological 
order.  But  for  pupils  of  the  first  and  second  years  of  the  high 
school  course  poems  will  naturally  be  selected  with  an  eye  to 
their  simpHcity  and  suitability  of  appeal.  The  following 
Hst  of  authors,  arranged  not  in  order  of  preference  but 
chronologically,  will  direct  the  teacher  to  over  a  hundred 
poems  exceptionally  adapted  to  the  course  of  the  first  two 
years ;   and  these  poems  by  no  means  exhaust  the  possibilities : 

Elizabethan  lyrists,  Cavalier  lyrists.  Gray,  Goldsmith,* 
Blake,*  Burns,*  Coleridge,  Southey,*  Lamb,  Hunt,*  Byron,* 
Shelley  {The  Cloud)  *  Macaulay,*  Tennyson  (nearly  all),  Ar- 
nold (The  Forsaken  Merman)  *  Lowell,  Morris,  Stevenson,* 
Henley,  KipUng  (nearly  all),*  Yeats,*  De  la  Mare,*  Mase- 
field,  Noyes  (nearly  all),  Stephens  (nearly  all),*  O'Sullivan,*  and 
most  of  the  poets  of  the  World  War.  From  the  authors  marked 
with  an  asterisk,  some  fifty  poems  may  be  drawn  that  will  be 
both  delightful  and  instructive  for  pupils  of  the  first  year.     If 


X  PREFACE 

they  have  read  a  few  of  the  poems  already  in  the  grammar 
school,  they  will  derive  nothing  but  profit  from  reviewing  them 
at  a  maturer  age. 

M  Remembering  that  the  purpose  of  this  study  is  to  promote 
ft  love  of  poetry,  teachers  will  encourage  their  pupils  to  read 
widely,  as  well  as  carefully.  That  all  may  know  what  good 
things  not  included  in  this  book  await  the  reader  we  have  con- 
stantly, in  the  biographies  of  the  poets  and  in  the  notes,  sug- 
gested poems  and  volumes  of  poems  with  which  the  materials 
presented  here  may  be  supplemented.  The  more  generously 
school  and  town  libraries  are  equipped  with  such  books '  the 
more  generally  will  good  poetry  be  read,  and  the  more  richly 
will  teachers  be  repaid  for  their  classroom  efforts  to  stimulate 
an  appreciation  of  what  is  best  in  our  literature. 

The  methods  of  teaching  outlined  in  previous  editions  of 
this  book  are  included  with  similar  materials  in  a  bulletin  en- 
titled Suggestions  for  Teachers  of  English  in  the  Secondary 
Schools,  by  C.  M.  Gayley  and  C.  B.  Bradley.  The  pamphlet 
may  be  had  on  application  to  the  University  of  California 
Press,  Berkeley. 

It  remains  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  publishers  and 
authors.  The  selections  from  the  poetry  of  Robert  Bridges 
are  used  by  permission  of  and  by  arrangement  with  the  Ox- 
ford University  Press.  We  are  similarly  indebted  to  Double- 
day,  Page  and  Company  for  the  selections  from  the  poetry  of 
Rudyard  Kipling;  to  John  Lane  Company  for  Wordsworth's 
Grave  by  Sir  William  Watson,  and  for  the  selections  from 
John  Davidson,  Stephen  Phillips,  and  Rupert  Brooke;  to 
the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  We  Willed  It  Not  by 
John  Drinkwater  and  Edith  Cavell  by  Laurence  Binyon;  to 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company,  his  American  publishers,  for  the 
selections  from  Austin  Dobson;  to  Longmans,  Green  and 
Company  for  the  selections  from  Andrew  Lang;  to  William 
Heinemann  for  Lying  in  the  Grass  by  Edmund  Gosse;  to 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  the  selections  from  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson's  ''Child's  Garden  of  Verses,"  and  I  Have  a  Ren- 
dezvous with  Death  from  Poems  by  Alan  Seeger ;  to  Henry  Holt 
and  Company  for  the  selections  from  ''Peacock  Pie"  and  "The 


i 


PREFACE  xi 

Listeners"  by  Walter  de  la  Mare;  to  Frederick  Stokes  Com- 
.pany  for  the  selections  from  Alfred  Noyes;  to  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons  for  In  Flanders  Fields  by  John  McCrae ;  to  the  London 
Times  for  Into  Battle  by  the  Hon.  JuHan  Grenfell;  and  to 
The  Macmillan  Company  for  the  selections  from  John  Mase- 
field  and  William  Butler  Yeats,  and  the  selections  from  "The 
Hill  of  Vision"  and  "The  Rocky  Road  to  DubHn"  by  James 
Stephens,  and  for  selections  from  "Battle  and  Other  Poems" 
by  W.  W.  Gibson.  We  also  take  great  pleasure  in  expressing 
our  gratitude  to  Robert  Bridges,  Edmund  Gosse,  Rudyard 
Kiphng,  Walter  de  la  Mare,  and  AKred  Noyes  for  personal 
permission  to  use  their  poems. 

Charles  Mills  Gayley 
Ui«VERSiTY  OF  California, 
May  lo,  1920. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


AN   INTRODUCTION 
TO 

THE   STUDY   OF   POETRY 

PAGE 
I.      LiTERATXJRE  IN   GENERAL XXiii 

II.     Poetry  Proper xxiv 

III.    The  Form  of  Poetry  —  Rhythm  and  Verse .  xxxi 

rV.     Verse  :    Foot  and  Metre xxxiii 

V.     Sound  in  Verse  :  Melody xli 

VI.     Sound  in  Verse  :  Harmony  ;  Rhyme xliii 

VII.    Larger  Units  of  Verse  :  Stanzas xlvi 

Vni.     Poems  of  Fixed  Structure 1 

IX.    The  Kinds  of  Poetry liv 

X.    The  Judgment  of  Poetry Ixvi , 

ENGLISH    POETRY 

PROGRESS    AND    MASTERPIECES 

CHAPTER  I.     HISTORICAL  BASIS 

The  Origins  of  the  Language i 

CHAPTER  II.    THE  FOURTEENTH   CENTURY 

The  Development  of  the  Language  and  the  Beginning  of  the 

Literature 5 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 6 

The  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Talc^ 8 

xiii 


XIV  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  III.    THE  FIFTEENTH   CENTURY 

PAGE 

The  Imitators  of  Chaucer  —  The  Renaissance  —  The  Print- 
ing Press  —  The  Ballad 28 

CHAPTER  IV.     THE  SIXTEENTH   CENTURY 

Parti.     The   Pre-Elizabethan   Era  —  A   Period   of   Prepara- 
tion —  Wyatt  —  Surrey 30 

Part  2.     The  Elizabethan  Age  —  The  First  Great  Creative 

Period 31 

Edmund  Spenser 32 

Illustrative  Stanzas  from  the  Faerie  Qiieene 34 

EOZABETHAN   LyRISTS 38 

\iR  Edward  Dyer  —  My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is 39 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  —  A  Vision  upon  This  Conceit  of  the 

^                        Faery  Queen • j  40 

The  Conclusion I  40 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  —  A  Bargain 41 

John  Lyly  —  Apelles'  Song 41 

vpEORGE  Peele  —  Harvestmen  a-Singing 42 

Robert  Greene  —  Sephestia^s  Song  to  Her  Child 42 

Christopher  Marlowe  —  The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His 

Love 43 

T""*.      William  Shakespeare — Three  Sonnets:   xxix;  xxx;  cxvi  44 

Nine  Songs :  Winter 45 

Who  Is  Sylvia 46 

^nder  the  Greenwood  Tree 46 

Ingratitude 47 

Dirge  of  Love 48 

Auhade 48 

The  Fairy  Life .  48 

A  Sea  Dirge 49 

ArieVs  Song 49 

Thomas  Campion  —  Cherry-Ripe   50 

Ben  Jonson  —  Song  to  Celia 50 

Hymn  to  Diana 51 

Simplex  Munditiis 51 

Francis  Beaumont  -^  On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey  52 


56   y 


CONTENTS  XV 
CHAPTER  V.  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

PAGE 

Part  i.    To  the  Restoration 53 

Cavalier  Lyrists 54 

Robert  Herrick  —  Gather  Ye  Rosebuds  While  Ye  May.  ...  55 

To  Daffodils 56 

George  Herbert  —  Virtue 

James  Shirley —  The  Glories  of  Our  Blood  and  State..  .  .       57 

Edmund  Waller  —  Go,  Lovely  Rose 58 

William  Habington  —  Nox  Nocti  Itidicat  Scientiam 59 

Sir  John  Suckling  —  Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover . .       60 
Richard  Lovelace  —  To  Lticasta,  on  Goifig  to  tite  Wars. . .       61 

Henry  Vaughan  —  The  Retreat 61 

From  The  World;  From  Departed  Friends 62 

The  Puritan  Influence 63 

John  Milton 64 

V  Allegro 66 

II  Penseroso 70   y^ 

Lycidas 75/' 

Paradise  Lost  (Selections) 80 

Sonnets :  II.    On  His  Having  A  r rived  at  tfie  A  ge  of  Twenty- 
three 87 

XVI.     To  tlie  Lord  General  Cromwell 88 

XIX.     On  His  Blindness 88 

Part  2.    The  Age  of  the  Restoration 89 

John  Dryden .". 90 

Alexander's  Feast;  or,  The  Power  of  Music 92 

CHAPTER  VI.     THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Part  i.    The  Classical  or  Conventional  School 98 

Alexander  Pope 100 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock:   (Original  Edition  of  171 2) 103 

The  Universal  Prayer ; 112 

Part  2.    The  Movement  of  Reaction 114 

Thomas  Gray 116 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 118. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 122 

The  Deserted  Village ; .  . .  .  124 


/ 


XVI  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

William  Blake 135 

From  Songs  of  Innocence  —  Introduction 136 

On  Another's  Sorrow 136 

The  Chimney  Sweeper ij8 

Auguries  of  Innocence 138 

Robert  Burns 139 

\^uld  Lang  Syne 141 

r  Of  A'  the  Airts  the  Wind  Can  Blaw 142 

Highland  Mary 142 

^Bonie  Doon 143 

Duncan  Gray 144 

Scots  Wha  Hae 145 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  A '  That 146 

^vl  Red,  Red  Rose 147 

To  a  Mouse 148 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 149 

CHAPTER  VII.     THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Part  i.     The  New  Romantic  Poetry 156 

William  Wordsworth 157 

Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  T intern  Abbey 160 

^\  Ode  —  Intimations  of  Immortality 165 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up  When  I  Behold 171 

I         Tlie  Solitary  Reaper 171 

^  7  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 172 

The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan 173 

Sonnets:  London,  1802  [To  Milton] 174 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  Sept.  3,  1802 ....  1 74 

It  Is  a  Beauteous  Evenitig,  Calm  and  Free 175 

The  World  Is  Too  Much  with  Us 175 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 176 

Tfte  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 178 

Kubla  Khan:  or,  A  Vision  in  a  Dream 198 

Robert  Southey 200 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim 200 

Charles  Lamb 202 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 203 

Leigh  Hunt 204 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 204 


CONTENTS  xvil 

PAGE 

Part  2.    The  Poets  of  Social  Revolt 205 

George  Gordon  Byron ; 205 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 208 

Stanzas  from  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage : 

Canto  III,  xxi-xxviii :   Waterloo 220 

Canto  IV,  cxxxix-cxlv:   The  Coliseum 222 

Canto  IV,  clxxviii-clxxxiv :   The  Ocean 224 

Know  Ye  the  Land 226 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 226 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 227 

To  a  Skylark 229 

The  Cloud - 232 

To  Night 235 

Stanzas  from  Adonais 236 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry  (From  Prometheus  Unbound) 238 

The  Glory  of  Prometheus  (From  Prometheus  Unbound) . .  239 

Sonnet :  Ozymandias 239 

Part  3.     A  Poet  of  the  ^Esthetic  Transition 240 

John  Keats 240 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 242 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 254  ' 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 257  '^ 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 259 

Sonnet:  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 261 

Part  4.    The  Victorian  Age  :  The  Elder  Poets 261 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 262 

Horatius 264 

Alfred  Tennyson 283 

CEnone 286 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 294 

Ulysses 299 

Break,  Break,  Break 301 

^Songs  from  The  Princess 301 

Proem  from  In  Memoriam 303 

Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall 305 

Crossing  the  Bar 305 

Robert  Browning 305 

Songs  from  Pippa  Passes 308 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 309 


\j 


xvm 


CONTENTS 


\  PAGE 

The  Patriot:  An  Old  Story 310 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 311 

Home  Thoughts,  from  the  Sea 312 

My  Last  Duchess 312 

Andrea  del  Sarto 314 

^Rabhi  Ben  Ezra 321 

^Prospice 327 

Epilogue  to  Asolando 328 

Matthew  Arnold 329 

The  Forsaken  Merm-an 331 

To  Marguerite *. 335 

^-Rugby  Chapel 336 

\    Dover  Beach .' .  .  342 

^Requiescat 343 

George  Meredith 344 

Juggling  Jerry 347 

Martin's  Puzzle 350 

Part  5.    The  Victorian  Age  :  Poetry  of  Chivalry 352 

James  Russell  Lowell  —  An  American  Contemporary.  354 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal 357 

Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King 368 

iMncelot  and  Elaine 369 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 409 

Part  6.    The    Victorian    Age  :   Completion    of    the    Romantic 

Movement 422 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 424 

The  Blessed  Damozel 426 

William  Morris 430 

An  Apology  (From  The  Earthly  Paradise) 433 

The  Writing  on  the  Image  (From  The  Earthly  Paradise)  434 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 443 

The  Making  of  Man 446 

TJie  Garden  of  Proserpine 447 

Part  7.    The  Victorian  Age  :  The  Younger  Poets 450 

Henry  Austin  Dobson 452 

Good-Night,  Babette 454 

The  Child-Musician 456 

Essays  in  Old  French  Forms : 

Triolet  —  Rose  Crossed  the  Road 457 


CONTENTS  XIX 

PAGE 

Rondel  —  The  Wanderer 457 

Rondeau  —  With  Pipe  and  Flute 458 

Villanelle  —  For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus 458 

Andrew  Lang 459 

Ballade  of  Middle  Age 460 

Sonnet:  Homer 461 

Robert  Bridges 462 

/  Have  Loved  Flowers  That  Fade 463 

/  Love  All  Beauteous  Things 464 

Laus  Deo 464 

Weep  Not  To-day 464 

Edmund  Gosse 465 

Lying  in  the  Grass 466 

William  Ernest  Henley 468 

I  Am  the  Captain  of  My  Soul ; 470 

In  Hospital: 

I.  Enter  Patient. 471 

II.  Waiting .  471 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 472 

From  A  ChiWs  Garden  of  Verses : 

I.     Travel 474 

II.  The  Land  of  Counterpane 475 

III.  The  Wind > 475 

IV.  The  Unseen  Playmate 476 

V.    Armies  in  the  Fire 477 

VI.     Historical  Associations 477 

The  Sick  Child 478 

Requiem 479 

John  Davidson 479 

God  Is  an  Artist,  Not  an  Artisan 481 

The  Unknown 482 

Sir  William  Watson 483 

Wordsworth's  Grave 485 

RuDYARD  Kipling 491 

Mandalay 495 

Gunga  Din 497 

// 499 

When  Earth's  Last  Picture  Is  Painted 500 

Recessional 501 

For  All  We  Have  and  Are 502 


XX  CONTENTS 


I 


PAGE 

^ViLLiAM  Butler  Yeats 503 

^^The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree ' 504 

The  Fiddler  of  Dooney 505 

The  Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan 506 

Stephen  Phillips 507 

Marpessa  (Selections) 509 


CHAPTER  VIII.    THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

Part  i.     Georgian  Poetry 517 

Waivter  de  la  Mare 517 

Koems  from  Peacock  Pie: 

N    I.     The  Little  Bird 519 

II.     The  Little  Green  Orchard 520 

III.  Nicholas  Nye 521 

IV.  Poor  "  Miss  7 " 522 

V.     Tit  for  Tat . . .: 523 

VI.     The  Truants 524 

VII.     All  but  Blind 524 

Miss  Loo 525 

Old  Susan 526 

John  Masefield 526 

A .  Consecration 529 

Dauber  (Selections) 530 

Cargoes 540 

Alfred  Noyes 541 

The  Barrel-Organ 542 

The  Admiral's  Ghost 548 

The  Highwayman 551 

James  Stephens 556 

\    A  Lonely  God 557 

V  Poems  from  the  Adventures  of  Seumas  Beg : 

The  Horse 559 

The  Devil's  Bag 560 

A  Visit  from  Abroad 560 

What  the  Snake  Satv 561 

Midnight 561 

Seumas  O'Sullivan  (James  Starkey) 561 

The  Ballad  of  the  Fiddler 562 


CONTENTS  XXI 

PAGE 

In  Mercer  Street  : 

I.     A  Piper 564 

II.     Lark's  Song 564 

Patrick's  Close 565 

TJte  Funerals 566 

Part  2.    Poetry  of  the  Great  War 566 

John  Drinkwater  —  We  Willed  It  Not 568 

Julian  Grenfell  —  Into  Battle 569 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  —  Retreat 571 

The  Messages 57i 

Salvage 572 

Alan  Seeger  —  /  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death 572 

Rupert  Brooke  —  The  Soldier 573 

The  Dead:  1 573 

The  Dead:  II 574 

Laurence  Binyon  —  Edith  Cavell 575 

John  McCrae  —  In  Flanders  Fields 577 

Alfred  Noyes  —  Princeton  {1917) 577 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  STUDY  OF 
POETRY  1 

I.    LITERATURE  IN  GENERAL 

1.  Literature  may  be  defined  as  the  product  of  thought  in 
language  committed  to  permanent  form  by  writing.  It  is  of 
three  kinds :   the  practical,  the  artistic,  and  the  creative. 

2.  Practical  Literature  aims  to  give  information  about  the 
actual  affairs  of  life.  It  communicates  facts  to  our  thinking 
faculty,  the  understanding.  It  consists  of  records,  reports, 
official  papers,  business  correspondence,  the  news  of  the  day, 
textbooks,  and  other  publications,  historical  or  scientific,  thft,t 
are  intended  to  disseminate  information.  Practical  literature 
aims  to  set  the  '^  hard  facts  "  before  us  as  they  are,  without  any 
coloring  of  emotion  or  appeal  to  the  imagination.  When  the 
purpose  of  literature  is  merely  to  instruct  or  to  convince  by  argu- 
ment, it  is  a  handicraft.  The  appropriate  language  of  i>ractical 
literature  is  prose. 

3.  Artistic  Literature.  —  Literature  begins  to  enter  the 
realm  of  art  just  as  soon  as  it  stimulates  the  imagination  and 
stirs  feelings  of  pain  and  pleasure  —  especially  feelings  that  are 
not  about  our  own  practical  concerns.  The  literature  of  history 
as  it  is  written  by  Macaulay,  with  charm  of  manner  and  style, 
with  imagination  and  feeling,  is  artistic  even  though  its  pur- 
pose be  to  instruct  and  convince.  So  also  are  the  orations 
of  Burke  and  Webster  and  the  essays  of  Matthew  Arnold  and 
Lowell  and  Emerson.  They  are  artistic  literature  but  they 
are  not  creative.  The  cause  for  this  is  not  that  they  are  written 
in  prose,  but  that  they  are  addressed  to  the  reason,  rather  than 
to  the  imagination  and  the  emotions.  Their  first  aim  is  to  in- 
struct and  convince. 

4.  Creative  Literature.  —  When  the  author  aims  not  at  all 

1  The  Principles  of  Poetry  printed  in  previous  editions  of  this  book  will  pres- 
ently be  issued  in  revised  and  enlarged  form. 


xxiv        INTRODUCTION    TO   THE  STUD'/  OF  POETRY 

to  instruct  or  convince  but  to  appeal  directly  to  the  imagination 
of  his  readers  and  to  the  emotions  that  delight  in  the  ideal  — 
the  wonderful,  noble,  beautiful  —  he  produces  Creative  Litera- 
ture :  a  song,  like  Burns 's  Auld  Lang  Syne  ;  a  story,  like  Mr. 
Kipling's  Wee  Willie  Winkie  ;  an  epic,  like  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost  ;  a  novel,  like  Thackeray's  Henry  Esmond  ;  a  drama,  like 
The  Tempest,  (i)  The  subject  is  no  longer  some  bare  fact, 
but  the  fact  colored  by  a  noble  emotion  and  transfigured  by  the 
author's  imagination.  He  has  created  something  new  and 
beautiful.  (2)  His  song  or  story  or  drama  does  not  affect  our 
immediate  and  particular  and  practical  concerns  and  our  selfish 
emotions ;  it  is  his  vision  of  what  life  means  for  the  hearts  of  all 
people  always.  (3)  He  tries  to  awaken  in  us  the  imaginings 
that  he  had,  and  by  means  of  those  imaginings  to  arouse  in  us 
tUe  emotions  that  inspired  him  to  create.  (4)  The  style  as  well 
as  the  thought  gives  exalted  pleasure.  (5)  Creative  literature 
is  poetic.  The  word  ''  poetic  "  means  creative.  (6)  Poetic 
literature  may  be  written  in  either  prose  or  verse.  Prose  and 
verse  are  merely  ways  of  arranging  words.  Of  the  difference 
between  them  and  the  reason  for  it  we  shall  speak  later.  Short 
stories  and  novels  and  dramas  in  prose  are  often  poetic.  But 
verse  is  the  form  best  adapted  to  imaginative  and  emotional 
utterance.  The  highest  kind  of  creative  literature,  Poetry 
Proper  —  lyric,  narrative,  or  dramatic  —  is  written  in  verse. 

n.  POETRY  PROPER 

5.  Poetry,  or  Poetry  Proper,  is  a  transfiguration  of  life,  an 
imaginative  presentation  of  it,  addressed  to  our  nobler  emo- 
tions and  expressed  in  language  of  appropriate  rhythmic  form, 
preferably  verse.  * 

We  read  poetry  because  it  gives  us  delight.  It  carries  us  along 
with  the  rhythmic  swing  of  its  lines,  and  its  words  fitly  chosen 
present  to  the  imagination  pictures  of  what  is  most  real  and  most 
lasting  in  human  experience.  The  music  of  the  words  and  the 
beauty  of  the  images  move  our  feelings  and  awaken  within  us  a 
"  passion  for  the  good  and  fair." 

The  word  "  Poetry  "  means  a  creation.  The  word  "  Poet  " 
means  a  maker,  a  creator. 


POETRY  PROPER  XXV 

The  Subjects  of  poetry  are  drawn  from  nature  and  human 
life :  whatever  man  perceives,  feels,  thinks,  wills,  or  does. 
Poetry  sets  before  us  man's  emotions  and  his  moral  character, 
his  conceptions  and  intentions,  his  aspirations,  his  ideals,  and 
his  deeds ;  in  short;;}<is  career  and  the  world  in  which  he  moves. 

The  Activity  of  iheJMind  by  which  poetry  transfigures  life  is 
the  Imagination. 

The  Means  by  which  poetry  conveys  to  us  its  transfiguration 
of  life  are  the  Images,  or  Pictures,  created  by  the  imagination, 
and  the  Words  by  which  they  are  expressed. 

The  Purpose  of  poetry  is  to  stir  our  Emotions  and  assist  them  | 
to  appreciate  the  meaning  of  life  as  it  is  presented  to  us  in  the/ 
light  of  goodness  and  beauty. 

The  Form  of  poetry  and  its  Kinds  we  shall  consider  in  later 
sections.     Here  let  us  discuss  the  terms  mentioned  above. 

6.  Imagination.  —  Imagination  is  (i)  the  faculty  by  which 
the  mind  embodies  an  id^a  in  a  picture  or  image  that  we 
c^n  grasp.  It  is  (2)  the  faculty  that  forms  images  or  pictures 
oi  objects  not  present  to  the  senses.  It  is  (3)  the  facultv  that 
C(^structs  the  whole  song  or  story  to  which  these  pictures  of 
characters  and  emotions,  of  scenes  and  events,  contribute. 

The  poet  draws  for  the  construction  of  his  poem  from  nature 
and  human  life,  but  he  does  not  confine  himself  to  copying  the 
particulars  exactly  as  they  are  and  in  their  exact*  order  or  to  re- 
producing the  actual  objects  as  they  remain  in  his  memory, 
(i)  He  selects^the  objects  or  events  that  he  shall  use.  (2)  Some 
he  may  miitate  in  detail.  (3)  Some  he  may  outline  from 
memory.  (4)  In  general,  by  his  imagination  he  reshapes  his 
actual  experience  or  invents  what  might  have  been  experienced, 
and  (5)  by  his  imagination  he  arranges  all  to  suit  the  purpose 
of  hjnync  or  storv  or  drama.  * 

The  poet  wishes  to  make  us  feel.  He  does  not  reason  with  us. 
He  puts  thoughts  and  things  into  as  real  and  vivid  a  form  as 
possible  so  as  to  appeal  to  our  senses.  If  he  wishes  us  to  appre- 
ciate what  patriotism  is,  he  does  not  make  a  general  statement 
about  it  or  give  us  a  definition  of  it ;  he  shows  us  what  it  is  in  a 
series  of  pictures  —  perhaps  in  a  picture  of  a  single  instance. 
He  sets  before  us  Horatius  and  his  two  noble  friends  keeping 


XXVI       INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

the  bridge  which  the  enemy  must  not  cross  —  or  Rome  will  fall. 
The  Etruscan  foe  sweeps  down  upon  the  Three,  jeering  as  it 
comes.  The  Three  look  the  oncoming  thousands  in  the  face, 
give  battle,  and  hold  them  back  just  for  a  brief  season  manfully. 
But  the  Romans  have  had  time  to  hew  the  bridge  down.  As 
it  totters  the  two  friends  escape.  Rome  is  saved.  Horatius 
plunges  into  the  yellow  Tiber  and  reaches  the  home  shore, 
and  — 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Imagination  leaves  out  evervthing  that  does  not  count.  It 
retains  or  adds  wkatever  may  help  us  to  grasp  the  meaning  of 
an  idea  or-an  object  and  to  feel  it.  It  furnishes  something  more 
significant  and  impressive  than  an  actual  experience.  Imagina- 
tion is  the  faculty  of  spiritual  insight  as  well  as  of  creation.  By 
this  insight  the  poet  discovers  the  essential  and  lasting  passions, 
hopes,  and  deeds  that  are  behind  all  history.  He  presents  or 
suggests  only  those  that  underlie  all  experience  and  make  it 
worth  while  and  beautiful.  Whether  his  vision  is  of  an  amusing 
aspect  of  life  or  of  a  serious  aspect,  it  is  wisely  and  sincerely 
imagined.  He  sets  before  us  the  poetic  truth.  PoeUcJTruth 
is  notnecessarily  what  has  ha^gene^j^tj^JaitJiiaxA^y^  hap~ 
p'e^J^— -  what  is  probable  and  nearer  to  the  meaning  of  life 
than  most  of  the  things  that  happen  around  us  in  everyday  life. 

7.  Images,  Reproduced  and  Created.  —  The  poet  makes  use 
of  two  kinds  of  images :  (i)  those  that  reproduce  actual  experi- 
ence by  copyin^o;  it  nr  by  rfYivlng  it  through  mem.orv ;  (2)  those 
that  are  created  bv  the  poet's  imac^ination.  —  Memory  is  a  kind 
of  ima^gmation,  but  it  merely  reproduces  what  we  have  experi- 
enced. J^Temory  images  adorn  poetry7  but  they  are  not  purely 
creative.  Excellent  examples  of  them  will  be  found  in  the  old 
ballads  and  in  Macaulav's  Horatius  (stanzas  VI-VHI).  Such 
images  are  common  to  all  literature.  Cteated  images  are  the 
distinctive  property  of  poetrv.  Thev  represent  facts  or  fancies, 
selected,  modified,  and  transformed  by  the  imagination  mto 
something  new  both  in  idea  and  expression.  Memory  recalls 
the  simple  picture  of  a  "day-break."     Creative  imagination 


I 


POETRY  PROPER  XXVll 

transforms  the  "  day-break  "  into  ''  incense-breathing  Morn," 
or  "  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Dawn  "  —  presents  it  under  an 
aspect  of  new  meaning  and  beauty.  When  other  literature  uses 
created  images  it  is  more  or  less  poetic. 

8.  Figures  of  Poetry.  —  Created  images,  as  we  have  seen, 
give  body  and  form  to  thoughts  and  make  what  is  not  present 
to  the  senses  more  real,  vivid,  and  suggestive  than  the  plain  fact. 
They  express  one  condition,  object,  or  action  by  aid  of,  or  in 
terms  of,  another.  The  devices  by  means  of  which  the  writer 
places  these  images  or  pictures  before  us  are  Figures  of  Poetry. 
Some  of  the  ways  by  means  of  which  they  convey  images  to  us 
are : 

(i)  By  expressing  one  object  by  aid  of  its  likeness  to  another, 

—  introducing  the  resemblance  with  such  a  word  as  "  like  "  or 
"  as."  When  Burns  thought  of  a  certain  lovely  woman,  the 
image  of  a  rose  came  to  his  mind,  and  he  likened  her  to  the  rose  : 
^'  My  luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose."  He  was  using  the  figure 
called  ^iW|7e.  (2)  By  expressing  one  object  in  terms  of  another, 
or  by  giving  it  the  attributes  of  another.  If  Burns  had  said, 
"  My  luve  is  a  red,  red  rose,"  he  would  have  been  using  a  figure 
called  Metaphor.  Shakespeare  uses  a  metaphor  when  he  calls 
the  stars  "  blessed  candles  of  the  night "  ;  so  does  Keats  when  he 
speaks  of  "  Music's  golden  tongue."  (3)  By  speaking  of  ab- 
stractions or  inanimate  things  as  if  they  had  life  and  form,  as 
"  Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  Virtue  would  By  her  own  radiant 
light."  This  is  Personificaiipn.  (4)  By  addressing  an  absent 
person  or  a  personified  thing  or  abstraction,  for  instance,  frailty 

—  "  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman.-**  This  is  Apostrophe^  (5)  By 
speaking  of  that  which  is  distant,  or  of  the  past  or  future,  as  if 
it  were  before  one  in  presence,'  as  when  Byron  referring  to  a 
work  of  sculpture  says,  "  I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie." 
This  is  Vision!  (6)  By  substituting  one  object  for  another, 
because  the  two  seem  to  be  closely  connected  or  related  physi- 
cally, as  the  material  is  to  the  thing  made  out  of  it,  —  for  in- 
stance, "  the  tinkling  brass  "  for  cymbals  ;  or  as  the  whole  is 
related  to  its  part,  or  the  part  to  the  whole,  as  ''  How  beautiful 
are  the.  feet  of  them  that  preach  the  gospel  of  peace  "  ;  or  as  the 
container  is  related  to  the  thing  contained,  and  vice  versa,  as 


XXVm     INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

"  Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy."  All  of  these  figures 
are  called  S^ftecdoche.  (7)  By  substituting  one  thought  or 
object  for  anotKer  because  they  accompany  each  other  in  time, 
as  "  all  autumn  "  for  the  fruits  of  that  season ;  or  are  related 
as  sign  and  thing  signified,  —  for  instance  "  gray  hairs  "  ioY  old 
age ;  or  as  cause  and  effect :  ''the  bright  death  "  for  the  cause 
of  death  —  the  sword.     Figures  of  this  kind  are  called  Metojj^^y. 

9.  Figures  of  Speech.  —  Figures  of  poetry  must  not  be 
confused  with  figures  of  speech  that  are  simply  devices  for 
forceful  expression.  In  common  with  other  literature  and  with 
the  language  of  conversation,  poetry  makes  use  of  figures  of 
speech,  but  they  are  concerned  with  the  sense  alone  ;  they  do  not 
make  use  of  images.  The  student  will  find  discussion  of  them  in 
textbooks  of  rhetoric.  Two  classes  may  be  mentioned,  (i)  De- 
vices of  Reasoning.  These,  such  as  hyperbole,  innuendo,  and 
irony,  suggest  indirectly  the  conclusion  to  which  the  author 
desires  to  lead  his  reader.  Hyperbole  overstates  the  fact  that 
the  reader  is  intended  to  accept.  Innuendo  understates  it. 
Irony  states  or  implies  the  opposite  of  the  fact.  (2)  Devices  of 
Rhetoric.  [These  are  either  methods  of  emotional  expression, 
such  as  Iteration  and  Broken  Utterance,  or  effective  arrange- 
ments of  words  within  the  sentence  or  paragraph,  such  as  An- 
tithesis, Balance,  Climax.  —  The  Hyperbole,  which  is  merely  an 
exaggerated  statement  of  a  fact  or  fancy,  sometimes  becomes 
poetic  by  taking  on  the  form  of  a  metaphor.  Milton,  for  in- 
stance, uses  hyperbole  in  the  form  of  metaphor  when,  to  de- 
scribe a  thrilling  song,  he  says  that  its  strains  ''might  create 
a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death." 

10.  Poetic  Diction.  —  The  means  by  which  the  poet  expresses 
"^"^ himself  are  images  and  words.,   (i)  His  diction  may  be  that  of 

^ordinary  speech,  or  it  may  be  polished,  or  grand.  It  may  be 
%either  formal  or  colloquial.  Note  the  dift*erence  between  the 
language  and  style  of  Gray's  Elegy  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost, 
on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other,  of  Kipling's  M andalay  a,nd 
of  the  Sailors  in  Mr.  Masefield's  Dauber.  The  diction  is  deter ' 
mined  by  the  purpose  of  the  author,  his  manner,  his  subject,  his 
characters  —  their  custom  and  their  time,  —  and  by  the  kind 
'^^'of  audience  to  which  he  appeals.     (2)  But  the  language  should 


POETRY  PROPER  XXIX 

»■  • 

be  perspicuous  even  if  the  thought  be  profound.     (3)  Poetry — - 
demands  words  that  are  vivid,  that  stir  the  senses,  that  are* 
picturesque,  that  make  sounds,  sights,  colors,  tastes,  touch, '' 
and  mental  experiences  live  for  the  imagination  and  go  home  to 
the  feelings.     (4)  The  words  are  colored  with  rich  associations.—^ 
Even  though  familiar  they  seem  to  be  novel  because  charged 
with  unexpected  meaning.     (5)  Sometimes,  in  order  to  create--^ 
the  appropriate  atmosphere,  the  poet  uses  words  that  are  old-  * 
fashioned,  even  archaic.     (6)  Sometimes  he  employs  unusual-—* 
phrases,  and  arrangements  of  words  in  the  sentence  and  para- 
graph that  are  infrequent  in  prose.     (7)  Sometimes,  to  create—* 
an  impression  of  swiftness  and  directness,  he  uses  abbreviated* 
expressions. 

All  these  peculiarities  are  permissible  if  suitable  to  the  purpose, 
the  subject,  the  mood  of  the  poet,  the  images  he  would  set  before 
us,  and  the  emotions  he  would  arouse. 

11.  The  Emotions.  —  Poetry  moves  us  to  sympathy  with  the 
emotions  of  the  poet  himself  or  with  the  careers  and  emotions 
of  the  persons  whom  his  imagination  has  created.  We  witness  - 
their  struggles,  triumphs  and  failures.  We  feel  their  loves  and 
hates,  their  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears,  indignations  and 
admirations,  laughters  and  despairs,  somewhat  as  if  these  were 
our  own.  And  still  while  we  suffer  with  their  anxieties  and  sor- 
rows we  derive  a  pleasure  from  the  experience.  That  pleasure  is 
one  of  disinterested  sympathy.     If  we  were  taking  active  part  in 

a  tragic  story  of  real  life  and  were  not  able  to  reflect  upon  it  im- 
partially and  see  into  its  meaning,  we  should  not  have  any  feel- 
ing of  imaginative  pleasure. 

But  because  we  know  that  every  great  lyric  and  epic  and 
drama  is  wisely  imagined  and  therefore  presents  gladness  or  woe 
in  the  light  of  beauty,  the  poem  gives  us  a  higher  satisfaction 
than  that  which  comes  from  making  other  people's  joys  and 
sorrows  our  own.  Arnold's  Requiescat,  Longfellow's  Evange- 
line, Tennyson's  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  Shakespeare's  Othello, 
are  sad,  but  they  are_uplifting,  beautiful^  and  ideal. 

12.  The  Ideal  Emotions. (— The  ideal  emotions  touch  our 
hearts,  but  they  do  not  mo^e'us  to  exultation  or  resentment  or 
despair  J  They  are  imagined  feelings.     They  are  the  emotions 


that  poetry  aims  to  awaken  in  us ;  and  they  give  us  the  pleasure 
proper  to  poetry,  —  the  pleasure  that  comes  from  feeling  deeply 
and  wisely  and  unselfishly  about  the  meaning  of  life.  And  that 
kind  of  feeling  we  can  have  only  when  we  regard  personal  joys 
and  sorrows  in  the  light  of  imagination  and  realize  that  they 
are  common  to  all  mankind.  Only  in  that  way  can  we  under- 
stand the  worth  and  beauty  of  life. 

Of  the  Ideal  Emotions  some  are  bom  of  pain  and  pity  and 

terror  and  are  grave  and  saddening,  such  as  the  tragic  and  the 

pathetic.     Some  teach  us  to  be  humble  before  the  mystery  of 

life,  —  such  as  the  sense  of  awe  and  reverence.     Some  inspire 

«i  to  noble  conduct,  —  such  as  the  sublime.     Still  others,  such  as 

sy^he"cdmic  and  the  beautiful,  help  us  to  realize  that  life  has  its 

^   brighter  side.  KThe  ideal  emotions  give  us  pleasure  even  when 

they  have  pained  us,  the  highest  pleasure  that  poetry  can  yield. 

^  They  all  contribute  to  what  is  called  Poetic  Beauty.     For  the 

V  beautiful  in  poetry  is  not  merely  that  which,  like  the  flower 


I 
^ 


^    ;     or  the  lovely  face,  charms  us  with  its  perfection  of  physical  form, 
x^  or  that  which,  like  the  gracious  and  happy  life,  suggests  the 
beauty  of  the  soul.  /  It  is  the  adequate  expression  of  a  wise  and 


r1 


\ 


imaginative  view  of  what  life  means  and  what  men  feel. )  There 
is  beauty  of  the  sublime  in  the  terror  of  the  storm  and  the  dis- 
aster of  the  sea.  There  is  beauty  in  the  pride  of  the  rebellious 
Archangel  and  in  the  dungeon  horrible  and  fiery  lake  to  which 
he  falls.  There  is  beauty  in  the  tragic  meanness  of  the  Hospital 
where  Life  and  Death  meet,  in  the  struggle  and  pathos  of 
Dauber's  career,  in  the  tombs  of  Westminster  Abbey,  in  the 
suffering  of  poor  ''  Miss  7,"  in  the  self-sacrifice  of  Gunga  Din, 
in  the  agony  of  the  Dying  Gladiator.  Poetic  beauty,  because  it 
utters  the  deeper  and  poetic  truth,  presents  life  in  its  fulness 
^nd  satisfies  our  passion  for  what  is  good  and  fair. 

Mr.  Masefield  says  of  one  of  his  tragic  heroines  —  singing  in 
her  last  hour  and  in  the  desolation  of  grief : 

So  triumphing  her  song  of  love  began, 
Ringing  across  the  meadows  like  did  woe 
Sweetened  by  poets  to  the  help  of  man 
Unconquered  in  eternal  overthrow. 

The  lines  are  from  his  Dafodil  Fields. 


FOIO:^   OP  POETRY;    RHYTHM  A 

riie  Purpose  of  Poetry;     the  Ideal.  —  in,-  p; 
J  is,  as  we  have  seen,  not  to  give  us  a  passing  th 

It  is  to  present  ^'by  rpp^tfl^  ^{  ^^fi  imaginatit-.     ^^J'J 
211  ndg^  fn|V"^Up,  t;n)otions/^      It  shows  us  the  nicanm:  f>     w 

i  amis  to  express  or  suggest  ideals  for  life  ^ 

TheTTdeal  is  antr}5a7i!«it-iiot'aTrT5tT!tnary  idea  or  tuo  l^ 

a  thought  of  something  more  real  than  actual  e^.;  -^ 

)  It  is  a  thought  of  what  woulj  hi.  th^  ^pst  p^^'^^^^^'*  '^'i^'^t      —4 
inpr..  ""  -  M-  r-',<i)uT^t,  for  instance,  of  trjth  r^r  •;:.iseL&shness  0        \ 
luty  in  its  perfection.  :  the  th«.^ught       f- 

a  pericctioii  mat  satisfies  both  our  reason  and  p^r  feellnga.       \ 
:■■  It  is  also  the  eniEQcriment  of  .an"^n  t|iOMer]ltJj].4gp  tiial  '     j 
)[3eak.  to  our  senses.  <:^y;iy  f ^TiotjnnS;  our-?i^4ti-     (4)  It  is  a  thought 
' at  tires  our  imagination  and  fills  us  with  enthusiasm.     W^ 
A  that  the  pertection  we  have  imagined  is -not  only  possi'iJ 

but  may  ])e  made  real  and  enduring.     (5)  It  is  something  ac*  ■    ' 

in  our  fives ;  it  is  a  standard  to  strive  fpy  and  imiti^,te. 
The  ideal  is  necessary  to  Ihuman  existence.     It  insp^ 

"^ike  the  best  of  ourselves  and  of  a  world  in  which  Im.m.i.  .  .   ^ 
orth  are  often  distorted,  and  where  selfish  and  petty  interests 
)uld  lead  us  astray.     It  Is  a  star  by  which  to  shai 
oetry  aims  to  show  in  the  light  of  beauty  what  is  ' 

is  wor;  It  presents  ideals  that  inspirelTf: 

passion  lui  wnat  is  good  and  fair 

III.    THE  FORM  OF  POETRY;  RHYTHM  AND   \  :  RSi. 

■  -      '"*  vthm.  —  When  we  read  poetry  aloud  wc  tak .. 
.  with  which  the  sounds  flow  from  our  lips, 
this  sense  of  flovrlng  along  because  the  words  are  s)  arran;^L'; 
that  we  cannot  help  emphasizing  certain  syllables  at  ref^- 
intervale.    And  the  regular  recurreoce  of  this  em[)iiasis  or  at  • 
delights  tlie  ear.     (n  such  a  stanza  as, 

This  serr-  h  waved  his  ha:  i  ; 

It  wflis  .  ight '. 

Thoysto  tothjib-nd, 

Each  c  ight, -^- 

it  is  not  necjessary  \o  mark  the  important  sylkbles  so  tha 


'%.f^  >a\^ 


NTRODUCTION    TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POEl  i 

\ 


4^ 


tha' 

^,  here  to  throw  the  emphasis.     But  if  we  should 

ar 

r  iius: 

V*  j^  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 

would  notice  that  every  other  syllable  has  a  natural  accent. 
"^       -^-^  r^PT"^^^  rAq^rrpnrf^  of  a  bea.^  nr  fi\rf^«i^  nr  arrent  in jpnetrv 

:  in  music)  is  called  Rhythn. 
:  '  Rhytkm  is  an  instinctive  tendency,  a  law  of  the  mind,  by  which 
we  regulate  the  movement  of  language  in  accordance  with  the 
accents  of  the  words,  (i)  The  word  rhythm  means  "  a  flowing. 
(2)  In  prose  there  is  frequently  a  rhythmic  flow  but  the  stresses 
or  accents  do  not  recur  with  regularity.  (3)  In  verse  —  the 
form  of  arranging  words  that  is  prefe;rred  by  poetry  —  the 
rhythm  gives  us  greater  pleasure  because  it  satisfies  our  natural 
desire  for  regularity.  It  is  natural  for  us  to  "  keep  step,"  to 
"  beat  time."  (4)  Noises  "  get  on  our  nerves."  If  they  are 
prolonged  they  weary  us.  If  they  are  jerky  they  irritate  us. 
They  have  no  law  and  therefore  seem  to  have  no  reason  for  exist- 
ence, no  meaning.  Every  series  of  sounds  that  we  hear  we  try 
to  reduce  to  order,  to  some  regular  recurrence  of  beat.  (5)  We 
arrange  the  sounds  in  groups  each  with  its  emphatic  beat  in  the 
same  place,  following  one  after  the  other  like  ripples  on  a  stream. 
Into  the  maddening  clack,  clack,  clack  of  the  railway  train  as  it 
bumps  over  the  ties  we  cannot  help  reading  some  kind  of  rhythm 
—  some  clickety-cldck,  clickety-cldck.  As  soon  as  we  have  done 
so,  the  noise,  whether  monotonous  or  jerky,  no  longer  disturbs 
us.  (6)*  When  we  arrange  word  sounds  in  such  a  way  that 
the  syllables  as  they  follow  one  after  another  form  little  rhyth- 
mical groups,  each  of  the  same  length  and  each  with  its  ac- 
cented syllable  in  the  same  place,  we  are  putting  them  into 
verse. 

15.  Verse  and  Prose.  —  Verse  and  prose  are  two  forms  in 
which  language  may  be  arranged.  Unpoetic  thoughts  are  some- 
times expressed  in  verse,  and  poetry  is  sometimes  expressed 
in  prose,  (i)  But  verse  is  the  more  appropriate  form  for  the 
language  of  poetry,  not  only  because  verse  gives  pleasure  by 
following  the  law  of  rhythm  but  because  it  selects  the  particular 
kind  of  rhythm  best  adapted  to  the  imagination  and  emotion 


\ 


VERSE:   FOOT  AND  METRE  XXXIU 


^That  the  language  aims  to  convey.     (2)  Prose,  on  the  other 

hand,  is  the  more  appropriate  form  for  the  language  of  practical 

and  scientific  thought  because  such  language  aims  not  to  give 

I   pleasure  but  information.     Prose  concerns  itself  first  and  fore- 

j   most  not  with  the  emotions  but  with  the  understanding.     The 

1   word  prose  means  "  forthright,"  "  direct,"  "  straight  on." 

IV.     VERSE:   FOOT  AND  METRE 

16.  Definitions.  —  The  unit  of  rhythm  in  English  poetry  is 
the  foot.  >(i)  The  Foot  is  the  smallest  group  of  accented  and 
unaccented  syllables  regularly  recurring  in  a  poem.  Upon  the 
kind  of  foot  employed  depends  the  rhythm  of  the  poem. 
{2yMetre,  which  means  "measure,"  regulates  the  number  of 
feet  in  each  line.  Each  line  is  called  a  verse. '  (3)  Verse  means 
"  a  turning."  When  a  verse  ends,  there  i^  a  slight  pause  and  the 
rhythm  turns  and  begins  another  verse.  f"The  verse  is  the  chief 
structural  unit  in  a  poem.  ^4)  The  word  "  verse,"  as  we  have 
seen,  is  used  also  in  a  general  sense  to  indicate  any  kind  of 
metrical  composition  ;  that  is,  anything  that  is  not  prose.  (5)  In 
prose  the  line  may  be  as  long  as  the  page  is  broad  and  there  is 
no  pause  except  for  punctuation  till  we  reach  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence.    In  prose  the  sentence  is  the  chief  structural  unit.    :'^' 

17.  Feet.  —  Feet  in  English  verse  are  of  two,  three,  or  four 
syllables,  (i)  In  each  foot  only  one  syllable  is  accented. 
(2)  The  unaccented  syllables  rise  toward  the  accent,  or  stress, 
or  they  fall  away  from  it.  (3)  In  the  words  "  inform,"  "  in- 
distinct," the  rhythm  of  the  foot  ascends  to  the  accent.  In 
the  words,  "  floating,"  "  tenderly,"  the  rhythm  descends  from 

^the  accent.  (4)  The  ^trg^s  is  indicated,  as  above,  by  the  ordi- 
nary sign  for  an  accerrTC).  The  lack  of  stress  may  be  indi- 
cated by  the  breve  (^),  a  sign  for  a  short,  or  light,  syllable. 
Vertical  lines  are  used  to  mark  off  the  feet. 

The  feet  most  commonly  used  in  English  verse  are  as  fol- 
lows : 

Ascending  Rhythm  -*  Desfc  iing  Rhythm 


Lanabus  (v-'^)  rnf6rm 

Txgchse  ( '  ^)  fl6at!ng 

Anapaest  (ww  , )  rndistinct 

Da<  tyl  (  -v^^)  t^ndferly 

Fx    11; '  ---->--)  Exquisitely 

xxxiv     INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

Two  unusual  feet  are  the  Spondee  and  the  Pyrrhic.     The 

spondee  consists  of  two  long  syllables  ( )  as  in  "empire." 

But  as  we  naturally  accent  the  first  syllable  of  "  Empire  "  the 
spondee  becomes  a  trochee  ('  ^).  Some  spondees  maybe  read 
as  iambs;  for  instance,  ''dilate."  The  pyrrhic  consists  of  two 
short  syllables  (^  ^) ;  but  since  we  naturally  place  an  accent  on 
one  of  the  syllables,  the  pyrrhic  becomes  an  iamb  (^  ')  or  a 
trochee  {'  ^). 

i8.  Metres.  —  Metres  are  of  as  many  kinds  as  there  are  feet 
in  the  line,  or  verse,  (i)  A  verse  of  one  foot  is  called  monometer, 
—  that  is,  one-measure ;  a  verse  of  two  feet  is  called  dimeter ; 
of  three,  trimeter;  of  four,  tetrameter;  of  five,  pentameter; 
of  six,  hexameter ;  of  seven,  heptameter ;  of  eight,  octameter. 
(2)  The  name  of  the  metre  is  generally  qualified  by  an  adjec- 
tive indicating  the  kind  of  foot  used  in  the  line.  A  verse  con- 
sisting of  one  foot,  such  as  ''  beware,"  would  be  monometer, 
but  since  "  beware  "  is  an  iamb,  the  metre  is  known  as  iambic 
/monometer.  A  verse  consisting  of  the  word  ''  folly  "  would 
be  trochaic  monometer.  (3)  The  division  of  verses  into  feet  is 
called  Scansion. 

The  following  are  examples  of  iambic  metres  in  their  simplest 
form: 


\ 


With  rav]ished  ears  (iamljic  dimeter). 
Grow  old  I  along  1  with  me  (iambic  trimeter). 
Now  strike  |  the  gol  1  den  lyre  |  again  (iambic  tetrameter) . 
So  all  1  day  long  |  the  noise  j  of  bat  1  tie  rolled  (iambic  pentameter). 
Thou  art  |  unseen  1  but  yet  1  I  hear  1  thy  shi'ill  |  delight  (iambic  Ik  vameter). 
Now  glo  I  ry  to  I  the  Lord  ]  of  Hosts  ]  from  whom  1  all  glo  |  ries  arc  (iambic  hep- 
tameter). 4 

The  octameter  is  merely  a  doubled  tetrameter  verse. 

The  metres  illustrated  above  are  of  Ascending  RhytJim.  The 
following  are  examples  of  metres  that  use  the  other  foot  of  ascend- 
ing rhythm  —  the  anapcsst  (^^  0  • 

As  I  ridejas  I  ride  (anapaestic  dimeter). 

"And  the  sound  1  of  a  voice  1  that  is  still  (anapaestic  trimeter). 
There's  a  bliss  !  beyond  all  ',  that  the  min  1  strel  has  told  (anap^stic  tetrameter). 


VERSE:    FOOT  AND  METRE'  XXXV 

Examples  of  metres  made  of  feet  of  Descending  Rhythm,  viz., 
the  trochee,  dactyl ,  and  pceon,  are : 

Rich  the  |  treasure  (trochaic  dimeter). 

Where  the  1  apple  1  reddens  (trochaic  trimeter). 

Do  not  I  shoot  me  ]  Hia  \  watha  (trochaic  tetrameter). 

This  is  the  i  forest  pri  |  meval  but  1  where  are  the  ]  hearts  that  be  [  neath  it  (dactylic 
hexameter ;  last  foot  a  trochee). 

Calling  to  the  |  angels  and  the  |  souls  in   their  de  |  gree  (pseonic  tetrameter ;    last 
foot  incomplete). 

Notice  that  each  of  the  paeons  in  the  last  verse  might  be  read 
as  two  trochees  ( '  ^  ^  --)  with  but  a  slight  accent  on  the  third 
syllable;  for  instance  ''  calling  ]  to  thg."  But  to  divide  paeons 
in  that  way  would  destroy  the  rapidity  of  the  rhythm.  Frequent 
use  of  the  pseonic  metres  is  made  by  Mr.  Kipling.  Examples 
of  the  paeonic  tetrameter  will  be  found  in  Mr.  Noyes's  The 
Barrel-Organ. 

For  purposes  of  brevity  iambic  monometer  may  be  indicated 
by  the  letters  xa ;  x  standing  for  an  unaccented  syllable,  a  for 
an  accented.  Anapaestic  monometer  would  be  xxa.  Trochaic 
monometer  would  be  ax;  dactyhc,  axx;  pasonic,  axxx.  For 
lines  of  more  than  one  foot,  prefix  a  figure  showing  the  number 
of  feet.  Thus,  iambic  pentameter  would  be  $xa;  dactylic 
dimeter,  2 axx;  etc. 

19.  Metres  of  Special  Interest. — The  iambic  ■pentameter 
plays  a  very  important  part  in  English  verse.  When  rhymed 
in  couplets  it  is  called  heroic  verse.  This  verse  is  used  in  many 
epics  and  dramas,  and  in  many  narrative  poems  —  such  as 
Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  —  and  in  mock-heroic  poems,  such 
as  Pope's  Rape  of  the  'Lock  : 

/  r  /  A  / 

What  dire  [  oflfence  |  from  am'  |  rous  caus  |  es  springs, 
What  mighty  quarrels  rise  from  trivial  things. 

When  unrhymed  the  iambic  pentameter  is  called  Blank  Verse. 
That  is  the  verse  used  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  Milton^s  Paradise 
Lo:d,  and  lemiyson's  Idylls  of  tJie  King  : 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountaing  by  the  winter  sea. 


XXXVl     INTRODUCTION    TO   THE  STUDY   OF  POETRY 

Blank  verse  is  oie  standard  metre  for  themes  of  gravity  and 
magnitude. 

Another  interesting  metre  is  the  iambic  hexameter,  or  senarius, 
now  usually  called  the  Alexandrine.     It  runs  thus  : 

^Tierce  wars /and  faitmul  loves'shall  moraliz^  my  strain. 

Spenser  used  it  as  the  concluding  line  of  what  is  named  after  him, 
the  Spenserian  stanza^  It  lends  an  air  of  sonority  and  finality 
to  the  eight  jientameter  verses  that  precede  it  in  the  stanza. 

A  still  more  interesting  metre  is  the  dactylic  hexameter.  It  is 
employed  by  Longfellow  in  Evangeline.  It  consists  in  English 
of  five  dactyls  and  a  final  trochee.  But  for  any  of  the  first  four 
dactyls  a  trochee  may  be  substituted : 


Over  the  |  pallid  |  sea  and  the  \  silvery  |  mist  of  the  |  meadows.       / 

20.  How  Metres  are  Varied.  —  In  the  examples  p«  metres 
given  above,  usually  the  same  foot  continues  thrpu^  the  line. 
It  is  well  for  one  who  is  beginning  to  write  verse  to  use  one  kind 
of  foot  for  the  whole  poem.  The  effect  of  such  regularity  is, 
however,  sometimes  monotonous.  The  experienced  poet  knows 
how  to  vary  the  effect  while  still  preserving  the  fundamental 
character  of  the  foot  and  metre.  He  substitutes  one  foot  for 
another ;  he  introduces  a  pause ;  he  varies  the  accent  of  the 
foot ;  he  varies  the  number  of  syllables  in  the  line. 

I.  Substitutions.  Feet  of  the  same  rhythmic  movement  are 
frequently  substituted  one  for  the  other.  Since  the  iamb  and 
the  anapaest  are  both  of  ascending  rhythm  an  anapaest  may  be 
used  in  an  iambic  verse  — 

For  all  I  averred  1 1  had  killed  \  the  bird ; 

or  an  iamb  in  an  anapaestic  verse  — 

By  the  truth  |  of  the  no  1  ble  dead. 

Feet  of  descending  rhythm  are  similarly  interchangeable.     For 
instance  a  dactyl  for  a  trochee  — 

* 

Under  the  \  hawthorn  |  in  the  |  dale. 


VErSE:    FOOT  AND  METRE  XXXvii 

And  in  a  dactylic  line  — 

Fair  is  our  j  loi  —  Oh\  goodly  is  our  \  heritage, 

we  find  a  trochee  in  the  second  foot  and  a  paeon  in  the  third. 

2.  Variety  of  Pause.  At  the  end  of  every  verse  the  voice 
naturally  makes  a  very  slight  pause,  even  if  the  pause  is  not 
called  for  by  the  punctuation.  The  reason  for  the  pause  is  that 
the  reader  has  completed  a  measure,  or  bar,  of  the  rhythm. 
But  there  are  two  other  kinds  of  pause,  both  of  which  lend  variety 
to  the  movement.  They  are  the  metrical  and  the  rhythmical 
(or  ccesural). 

The  Metrical  Pause  indicates  the  omission  of  an  unaccented 
syllable ;    sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  of  an  accented  syllable  ^ 
It  not  only  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  metre,  but  in  many  cases 
produces  an  elocutionary  effect  —  as  when  one  pauses  for  em- 
phasis in  ordinary  speech. 

In  the  following  iambic  verses  the  metrical  pause  occurs  where 
the  caret  (a)  indicates  the  missing  light  (unaccented)  syllable: 

Should  auld  1  acquain  |  tance  be  |  forgot, 
And  auld  !  Y  lang  |  V  syne. 

Another  example  would  be, 

X  Break,  |  ^  break,  1  ^  break. 
On  thy  cold  |  gray  stones,  1  O  sea. 

The  pauses  before  "  lang  "  and  "  syne  "  emphasize  those  words. 
The  pauses  before  "  break  "  in  the  second  example  indicate  the 
ebb  of  the  wave ;  and  gathered  stress  is  in  each  case  thrown  upon 
the  flow  and  break.  The  two  light  and  hurried  syllables  of  the 
substituted  anapaest  (On  thy  cold)  seem  in  some  degree  to  make 
up  for  the  lacking  syllables  in  the  preceding  line. 

Another  excellent  example  of  the  metrical  pause  is  the  follow- 
ing, from  As   You  Like  It  :^ 

Finds  tongues  i  in  trees,  t    T  books  \  in  the  run  \  ning  brooks, 
Ser  !  mons  in  simtes,  \  and  good  !  in  ev  j  erything. 

Shakespeare   intended   the   speaker,   Jaques,   to  pause  before 


XXXviii    INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

^'  books  "  and  before  "  sermons  "  as  if  considering  what  object 
he  should  mention  next.  In  each  case  the  omitted  syllable 
is  further  compensated  for  by  an  anapaest  in  the  following  foot. 
Some  authorities  would  leave  out  the  pauses  and  scan  books  in 
and  sermons  as  trochees.  But  that  would  break  the  ascending 
iambic  rhythm  and  would  at  the  same  time  destroy  the  elocu- 
tionary effect.  —  Another  good  example  of  the  metrical  pause 
occurs  in  line  76  of  Chaucer's  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales  : 

A  Al  bismotered  with  his  habergeoim. 

jMetrical  pauses  are  found  most  frequently  in  verse  of  a  lyrical 
quality.  They  are  like  the  "  rest,"  or  silence,  that  takes  the 
place  of  a  note  in  music. 

•  The  Rhythmical  or  Cassural  Pause  does  not  indicate  a  missing 
syllable.  It  is  a  pause  of  the  rhythm  as  it  flows  through  the 
verses,  (i)  It  does  not  -mark  the  end  of  a  verse  but  the  end 
of  a  sentence  or  phrase  within  the  verse.  (2)  It  cuts  the  metre 
of  a  verse,  either  at  the  end  of  a  foot  or  in  the  middle  of  a  foot. 
The  pause  is  commonly  called  the  ccesura.  The  word  means  a 
"  cut."  (3)  A  verse  may  have  one  caesura,  or  two,  or  none  at 
all.  (4)  The  caesura  may  coincide  with  the  punctuation,  but 
it  sometimes  is  a  mere  accommodation  to  the  speaking  voice  or 
the  listening  ear.  (5)  The  pause  is  always  natural;  and  the 
more  it  shifts  its  position  in  the  successive  verses  of  a  poem  the 
more  variety  and  charm  it  lends  to  the  movement  of  the  rhythm. 
(6)  It  is  most  effectively  varied  in  the  kinds  of  poetry  which 
represent  the  sequences  of  everyday  speech  —  narrative,  drama, 
and  reflective  soliloquy,  —  the  kinds  that  employ  verses  of  five 
feet  and  more. 

The  following  illustration  from  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  is  in 
blank  verse,  that  is  to  say,  —  unrhymed  iambic  pentameters. 
The  caesuras  are  indicated  by  vertical  dotted  lines. 

Thus  Sa  I  tan,  :  talk  |  ing  to  |  his  near  1  est  mate. 
With  head  |  uplift  |  above  |  the  wave,  :  and  eyes 
That  spark  1  ling  blazed ;  :  his  oth  |  er  parts  1  besides, 

y  Prone  1-  on  the  fl^od,  :  extend  |  ed  long  ]  and  large. 
Lay  floa^^ing  ma.'')  ny  a  rood,  :  in  bulk  |  a;  huge 
As  whom  1  the  fa  J  bles  name  |  of  mon  |  stious  size, 
Tita  I  niau,  :  or  1  Earth-born,  |  that  warred  |  on  Jove. 


VERSE  ;^  FOOT  AND  METRE  xxxix 

In  metres  of  all  kinds  the  caesura  is  called  masculine  when  it 
comes  after  a  stressed  syllable  —  as  in  verse  two,  above,  after 
**  the  wave."  When  it  comes  after  an  unstressed  syllable  it  is 
C8i]\td  feminine  —  as  in  verse  one,  above,  after  "  Satan." 

In  dactylic  hexameter  like  that  of  Evangeline,  the  caesura  must 
not  occur  at  the  end  of  a  foot,  but  within  it.  And  often  a  verse 
has  two  caesuras : 

Bearded  with  |  moss  ;  and  in  |  garments  |  green  •  indis  |  tinct  in  the  |  twilight. 

In  other  metres  of  more  than  five  feet,  the  caesura  falls  usually 
near  the  middle  of  the  verse. 

3.  Accents,  Hovering  and  Wrenched,  The  metrical  stress  is 
sometimes  varied  by  spreading  it  over  two  syllables  of  a  foot. 
This  distribution  may  be  indicated  by  the  use  of  the  grave  ac- 
cent ( ^ )  over  each  syllable.     In  the  first  line  of  Lycidas, 

Yet  once  |  more,  0  \  yeLau  ]  rels,  and  \  once  more, 

a  heavy  stress  hovers  over  both  syllables  of  the  second  foot  and 
of  the  fifth  (spondees).  The  naturally  unaccented~syITa'bles  of 
the  fourth  foot  (pyrrhic)  are  pronounced  slowly  as  if  they  divided 
with  difficulty  the  stress  that  the  iambic  rhythm  would  throw 
upon  the  insignificant  word  "  and."  (i)  The  accent  in  these 
cases  is  hovering.  (2)  When  the  stress  is  thrown  on  the  wrong 
syllable  of  a  word,  as  in  *'  my  ain  countree,"  or  on  a  syllable 
which  has  merely  a  secondary  accent,  as  in  "  silentl>',"  the 
accent  is  said  to  be  wrenched. 

4.  Variation  in  the  Syllable-Count.  Without  any  substitu- 
tion whatever  the  poet  sometimes  ad^s  a  syllable  or  drops  one 
from  the  regular  count. 

Added  Syllables,  (i)  In  a  line  of  descending  rhythm  an 
extra  syllable  frequently  appears  at  the  beginning.  This  addi- 
tion is  called  anacrusis  (a  striking  up  or  backward).  In  the 
trochaic  lines  — 

When  the  |  stars  threw  \  down  thfeir  (  spears 
And  I  watered  |  heaven  j  with  their  !  tears, 

i  he  ^*  and  "  at  the  beginning  of  the  seccnd  verse  is  an  exampl 
'  of  anacrusis.    The  unaccented  extra  syllable,  "and,"  strik 


I 


xl  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

up,  or  reaches  backward,  to  the  syllable  ''  spears  "  at  the  end 
of  the  preceding  line,  and  combines  with  it  to  make  a  trochee. 
If  there  be  two  of  these  additional  unaccented  syllables  at  the 
beginning  of  a  trochaic  or  dactylic  line,  they  may  similarly  push 
backward  and  form  a  dactyl  with  the  accented  syllable  at  the 
end  of  the  line  preceding. 

(2)  In  unrhymed  iambic  or  anapaestic  metres  an  additional 
unaccented  syllable  (sometimes  two ;  rarely  three)  may  follow 
the  last  stress,  the  natural  close,  of  the  verse.  This  addition  is 
called  a  hypercatalectic  or  feminine  ending.  It  lends  elasticity  to 
the  metre. 

That  durst  dislike  his  reign  and  me  prefernwg  .  .  . 

(3)  Extra  syllables  inside  the  verse  are  sometimes  slurred  in 
reading.  This  device  is  called  elision  (striking  off).  It  is 
frequently  resorted  to  by  Chaucer : 

Th(e)  estaat,  th(e)  array,  the  nombr(e)  and  eek  the  cause. 

(4)  Another  way  of  getting  rid  of  the  extra  syllable  is  by 
apocope,  —  "  cutting  out  "  a  vowel  from  the  middle  of  a  word,  — 
as  in  "  fi'ry,"  ''  pow'r."     Apocope  is  another  form  of  slurring. 

Lacking  Syllables,  (i)  luf  iambic  and  anapaestic  metres, 
as  we  have  seen,  a  light  syllable  is  often  lacking  at  the  beginning 
of  a  verse : 

And  oft  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
'a'  Stoop  1  ing  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Such  a  line  is  said  to  be  truncated.  The  omission  is  accounted 
for  by  a  pause  in  the  utterance.  Sometimes  the  truncation  gives 
the  whole  line  a  trochaic  effect.  (2)  In  trochaic  and  dactylic 
verse  a  light  syllable  is  frequently  lacking  at  the  end.  This 
omission  is  called  catalexis  (quitting).  In  Arnold's  Rugby 
Chapel  every  line  ceases  with  the  stressed  syllable  of  a  trochee : 

Coldly,  1  sadly  de  j  scends  Y 

The^  ant.umn  |  evening.    The  |  field  Y 

Strewn  witu  •    I, dank  yellow  t  drifts  V 


< 


SOUND  IN    VERSE:  MELODY  xli 

I 
The  first  syllable  of  the  second  line  combines  with  the  last  syl^ 
lable  of  the  first  line  to  form  a  trochee  by  anacrusis :    "  scends 

thg/y 

V.     SOUND   IN  VERSE:  MELODY  / 

We  have  so  far  been  considering  verse  as  characterized  by  its 
movement:  its  rhythm,  feet,  and  metres.  But  verse  has  also 
qualities  derived  from  thejnaterial  in  which  it  works.  The 
material  used  by  verse  is  that  of  words.  Words  are  sounds  con- 
veying thought.  The  sounds  have  different  quahties.  Each  has 
a  tone  like  a  note  in  music.  These  tones  following  each  other 
give  verse  its  melody :  somewhat  like  the  melody  of  a  tune. 

21.  Melody.  —  It  is  an  essential  of  poetry  that  it  should  by 
the  souhd  of  its  words  so  far  as  possible  echo  or  suggest  the 
emotion  or  mood  of  the  poet.  A  very  simple  way  to  suggest  a 
natural  sound  is  to  use  a  word  that  echoes  or  imitates  it,  such  as 
"  hn?:/,"  ^^hnnm/'  '' cri\rk]e."  This  attempt  at  imitation  is 
called  onomatopoeia  (making  a  word  like  the  sound).  But  the 
poet  aims^e-etr^^st  emotions  and  moods  as  well  as  to  e^o 
natural  sounds.  Sometimes  the  rhythm  of  his  verse  glides  from 
the  lips  of  the  reader ;  sometimes  it  leaps.  Sometimes  it  moves 
slowly,  even  reluctantly,  sometimes  rapidly.  Sometimes  the 
sound  of  the  words  suggests  a  tranquil  mood,  or  gayety  and 
ecstasy ;  at  other  times  the  sounds  are  sad,  or  they  hiss  and  jerk 
with  the  language  of  violent  pa*ssion.  Sometimes  the  tone  of 
the  melody  is  fuller  and  richer  and  more  varied  than  at  others. 

These  different  effects  are  produced  so  far  as  sound  is  con- 
cerned by  the  kinds  of  consonants  and  vowels  used  and  by  the 
order  in  which  they  follow  one  another.  The  poet  does  not 
necessarily  inquire  into  the  reason  or  follow  set  rules.  He  has 
a  sensitive  ear.  He  follows  his  instinct  and  he  learns  by  experi- 
ence. The  ordinary  reader  does  the  same.  A  few  examples 
will  tell  the  story  and  suggest  some  of  the  reasons. 

I.  Pleasant  Sounds.  Read  aloud  the  following  lines  from  The 
Ancient  Mariner  : 

Oh  sleep !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
,  V  lo^ed  from  pole  to  pole ! 

ay  Qiieen  the  praise  be  given  : 
::<  at  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven. 
Thai  slid  lato  my  soul.  — 


xlii  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

The  thought  is  of  comfort  and  the  poet,  Coleridge,  has  aimed  to 
express  the  comfort  not  simply  by  the  meaning  of  the  words  but 
by  their  sound.  You  feel  that  he  has  succeeded  even  though 
you  may  not  know  why.  But  simply  stated,  the  reasons  are 
as  follows,  (i)  Nearly  all  the  consonants  in  these  lines  are  soft 
and  resonant  {b,  d;  g,  as  in  given;  g,  as  in  gentle;  v,-  as  in  heaven; 
s,  pronounced  as  z,  in  praise;  th  as  in  the,  that).  These  conso- 
nants prolong  the  voice  easily.  (2)  Some  are  both  resonant  and 
liquid  (/,  m,  n,  r,  ng).  The  s,  which  naturally  would  hiss,  is 
used  three  times  in  combination  with  the  liquid  /  ;  a  pleasing 
sound  results,  as  in  sleep,  (3)  Most  of  the  vowel  sounds  are 
long  or  open  (ee,  0  ;  a,  as  in  Mary;  ai,  as  in  praise),  or  they  are 
so  combined  with  liquid  consonants  (as  in  gentle,  thing,  beloved, 
from,  sent)  that  the  sound  lingers  with  a  soothing  effect. 

2.  Unpleasant  Sounds.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  read  aloud 
a  few  lines  that  are  intended  to  be  the  opposite  of  smooth  and 
soothing  we  find  a  superabundance  of  sharp  and  hard,  explosive 
and  hissing,  consonants.  Like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds 
Horatius 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face ; 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

•Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

(i)  In  the  first  three  lines  —  those  descriptive  of  the  action  — 
Macaulay  has  used  twenty-four  sharp  or  hard  consonants  (/>,  t, 
k,f,h,  the  hissing  s,  the  thin  th,  as  in  thrust),  and  only  sixteen  of 
the  soft.  (2)  Several  of  the  consonants  are  explosive  as  well. 
Explosive  consonants,  like  the  p  in  pop  (or  in  sped,  above)  are 
formed  by  closing  the  mouth-passage,  and  then  bursting  it  with 
the  breath.  Other  consonants  used  explosively  in  this  quotation 
are  t,  k,  and  /.  (3)  In  these  lines  the  pleasing  long  and  open 
vowels  are  few  as  compared  with  the  short,  closed,  or  nasal. 

3.  Sequences,  (i)  Just  as  by  sequences  of  harsh  consonants 
disagreeable  effects  are  produced,  so  by  sequences  of  soft  and 
liquid  consonants,  agreeable  effects  —  as  in  Tennyson's  often 
quoted. 

Murmur  of  innumerable  bees. 


SOUND  IN   VERSE:  HARMONY;  RHYME  xliii 

(2)  By  sequences  of  long  and  open  vowels  lines  of  solemn  and 
inspiring  melody  may  be  produced.  Notice  the  effect  of  such 
vowels  in  the  apostrophe  in  B\Ton's  Childe  Harold^  beginning — 

Oh  Rome !   my,country,  city  of  the  Soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control  .   .   . 

(3)  A  most  depressing  effect  results  from  the  predominance  of 
short,  or  of  closed,  vowels  in  the  line  that  follows  the  preceding, — 

/n  their  shwt  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

(4)  The  monotonous  repetition  of  a  long  but  closed  vowel 
sound,  as  in  the  following  lines  from  Tennyson's  Lotus-Eaters 
is  effectively  expressive  of  boredom  and  weariness :  — 

Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 

The  effect  here  is  of  course  heightened  by  the  alliteration,  or 
repetition  of  the  consonants,  s,  w,  ?n,  r,  and  /. 

(5)  Numerous  melodies  result  from  the  alternation  of  vowel 
sounds,  —  as  in 

While  the  still  mom  went  out  with  sandals  gray. 

Notice  the  regular  variation  of  short  or  of  closed  vowels  (like 
the  i  in  ''  still  ")  with  long  and  open  (like  the  c>  in  "  morn  "). 
Those  of  the  latter  kind  are  italicized  in  the  line  above. 

\^.     SOUND   IN  VERSE:   HARMONY;   RHYME 

22.  Harmony.  —  We  have  seen  that  verse  has  melody,  and 
that  the  rnelody  depends  upon  the  quality  and_  arrangement  of 
vowel  and  consonant  sounds  as  they  succeed  each  other  in  the 
line  of  poetry.  But  verse  has  also  harmony,  —  somewhat  like 
the  harmony  of  notes  in  a  chord  of  music.  This  harmony  in 
verse  is  the  recurrence,  at  short  and  regulal*  intervals,  of  thai 
-ame  sound,  or  tone,  in  two  or  more  words. 

23.  Rhyme.  —  The  correspondence  of  word-sounds  is  called 
Rhyme.    There  are  three  kinds  of  rhyme :  rhyme  proper,  or  end- 


{ 


xliv        INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

rhyme ;  alliteration,  or  initial  rhyme ;  and  assonance,  or  middle- 
rhyme. 

I.  Rhyme  Proper.  Rhyme,  properly  so  called,  is  end-rhyme, 
(i)  It  is  the  complete  agreement  of  two  or  more  words  in  their 
final  sounds.  (2)  The  rhyming  words  are  at  the  end  of  two  or 
more  verses.  (3)  The  rhyming  sound  begins  in  the  last  ac- 
cented syllable  of  each  of  those  verses.  (4)  In  those  verses  the 
last  accented  vowel  and  all  that  follows  it  must  be  identical  in 
sound.  (5)  The  consonant  sound  preceding  the  last  accented 
vowel  in  the  rhyming  verses  must  not  be  the  same.  (6)  In  the 
verses — 

Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face, 

the  final  syllables  rhyme,  but  it  is  only  the  sound  ace  in  each  that 
makes  the  rhyme.  The  identity  ends  there.  (7)  It  is  just  as 
necessary  that  the  /  should  not  be  gr,  as  that  the  ace  should  be 
the  same  in  the  two  words.  "  Ag[^^5  "  and  "  iQ-cess  "  do  not 
rhyme  because  the  consonants  preceding  the  final  ess  are 
identical  in  sound,  even  though  one  is  an  s  and  the  other  a  c.  The 
result  is  mere  repetition  of  a  whole  syllable  sound,  and  not 
rhyme.  "Cry  "and  ''try,"  on  the  other  hand,  rhyme  —  be- 
cause the  combination  cr,  beginning  one  syllable,  produces  a 
different  sound  from  the  combination  tr,  beginning  the  other. 

The  spelling  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  rhynfe ;  buy  rhymes 
with  nigh,  although  the  rhyming  sound  is  spelled  differently 
in  the  two  words.  Even  if  the  spelling  is  the  same  but  the  sound 
different,  there  is  no  rhyme :  torn  does  not  rhyme  correctly  with 
scorn,  but  morn  does. 

Sometimes  the  rhyme  depends  upon  a  syllable  with  a  secondary 

accent :  Milton  rhymes  liberty  with  thee.    Rhymes  of  one  syllable, 

as  "fair"  and  "square,"  "forbear"  and  "compare"  are  called 

masculine  ;  those  of  more  syllables  than  one,  such  as  "  merry  " 

I  —"very,"  "merrily"  — "verily,"  " saturated "—" maturated  " 

I  —  whether  double,  triple,  or  quadruple  —  are  called  feminine. 

y  The  rhyming  words  may  stand  at  the  end  of  each  half  of  a  verse, 

as  in 

My  feet  have  trod  so  near  to  God. 

This  is  called  Internal  Rhyme. 


SOUND  IN    VERSE:   HARMONY;  RHYME  xlv 

2.  Alliteration,  or,  as  it  is  sometimes  called,  initial  rhyme,  is 
the  recurrence  at  short  intervals  of  the  opening  sound  of  ac- 
cented syllables.  The  repetition  is  generally  of  initial  conso- 
nant sounds,  as  in 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  g/ance 
Among  the  skimming  swallows. 

Our  Anglo-Saxon  forefathers  allowed  also  any  opening  vowel  to 
alliterate  with  any  other.  In  modern  poetry  the  alliteration  of 
consonants  may  occur  anywhere  in  a  line  or  a  series  of  lines; 
even  in  the  middle  of  words  and  at  the  beginning  of  unaccented 
syllables. 

3.  Assonance,  or  middle-rhyme,  is  the  identity  of  accented 
vowel  sounds,  as  in  "  r^areth,"  "  f^^ometh,"  when  the  consonant 
sounds  preceding  and  following  the  vowels  do  not  agree.  Asso- 
nance of  this  kind  is  introduced  by  Matthew  Arnold  in  Rugby 
Chapel  with  somewhat  of  the  effect  of  end-rhyme : 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 

Tarriest  thou  now  ?     For  that  force  ... 

Somewhere,  surely,  afar 

In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast  .  . 

But  ordinarily,  assonance  is  used  not  as  a  substitute  for  the  har- 
mony of  verse  endings,  but  as  an  element  in  the  melody  of  vowel- 
sequence  :   as  in  the  first  line  above. 

Oh  strong  soul,  by  what  shore. 

4.  The  Refrain.  The  effect  of  rhyme  is  produced  also  by  the 
device  called  refrain :  the  repetition'  at  fixed  intervals  of  certain 
words  or  of  a  line  or  two.  A  good  example  will  be  found  in 
Burns's  Duncan  Gray.  In  each  stanza  the  words  of  the  second, 
fourth,  and  eighth  lines  are  identical. 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't !  i 

On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't !  — 

and  so  on.  Other  examples  of  the  refrain  will  be  found  in  the 
French  forms  of  verse  written  by  Andrew  Lang  and  Mr.  Dobson , 


xlvi        INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

and  in  Mr.  Noyes's  The  Barrel-Organ.    The  refrain  is  an  im- 
portant feature  in  the  older,  and  many  of  the  later,  ballads. 

VII.    LARGER  UNITS  OF  VERSE:  STANZAS 

The  various  elements  of  verse  hitherto  discussed,  rhythm  and 
metre,  melody  and  harmony,  combine  in  the  production  of 
stanzas. 

24.  The  Stanza.  —  As  the  verse  consists  of  units  which  are 
feet,  so  the  stanza  is  made  of  units  which  are  verses.  The  stanza 
is  the  largest  definite  subdivision  of  verse-measure  in  a  poem. 
It  is  frequently,  indeed,  a  little  poem  in  itself,  (i)  If  regular, 
each  stanza  has  the  same  number  of  verses,  —  that  is,  of  lines. 
(2)  All  the  stanzas  follow  the  same  scheme  of  rhythm, 
metre,  and  rhyme.  (3)  The  scheme  should  be  appropriate  to 
the  emotional  thought  of  the  poem.  (4)  The  sentence  may 
continue  from  one  stanza  to  the  next  without  pause.  But 
each  stanza  should  yield  its  definite  impression.  (5)  In  blank 
verse  there  is  no  stanza;  the  progressive  parts  are  sentence, 
paraglftiph,  and  canto  or  book. 

I.  The  Couplet  is  a  pair  of  rhyming  verses.  Even  though  the 
couplets  may  be  printed  separately  they  are  not  usually  regarded 
as  stanzas,  because  they  are  rarely  independent  and  self-ex- 
planatory, (i)  Couplets  of  iambic  pentameters^  are  called 
heroic.  A  poem  of  continuous  heroic  couplets  is  said  to  be 
written  in  heroic  verse  —  for  instance,  — 

Say  what \strange  mojive,  Godless!  couldlcom^l 
A  well-bred  Lord  to  assaixlt  a  |entle  Belle'       \, 
O  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  Belle  reject  a  Lord  ? 

(2)  In  this  quotation  from  Vope's  Rape  of  the  Lock  the  final  verse 
of  each/  :ouplet  is  said  to  be  closed,  because  it  completes  the  sense. 

(3)  The  first  line  above  is  said  to  be  run-on,  because  the  sense  does 
not  pause ;  it  flows  over  into  the  second  line.  (4)  The  third 
line,  in  which  the  sense  pauses  at  the  end,  is  called  end-stopped. 
(5)  In  the  following  four  verses  the  first  couplet  is  called  free, 
because  the  sense  runs  without  pausing  into  the  second  coup- 
let.    The  second  and  third  verses  are  **  run  on  " ; 


LARGER   UNITS  OF   VERSE:    STANZAS  xlvii 

This  Nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 
Nourished  two  Locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  her  smooth  ivory  neck. 

The  closed  couplet  was  brought  to  perfection  by  Dryden  and 
Pope,  The  free  couplet  and  frequent  run-on  line  are  found  in 
Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  and  in  the  romantic  poets  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  their  followers. 

To  the  qualities  of  the  individual  line  of  verse,  namely,  metre 
and  melody,  the  stanza  adds  that  of  harmony.  The  rhyming 
sounds  link  the  verses  together;  and  the  effect  of  the  stanza 
upon  the  ear  is  somewhat  like  that  of  a  musical  chord".  To 
represent  the  rhyme-scheme  of  a  stanza  .we  may  indicate  each 
rhyming  sound  in  the  order  of  its  appearance  by  a  letter,  aor  b 
or  c,  etc.,  and  use  that  letter  for  that  sound  throughout.  A 
line  that  does  not  rhyme  may  be  indicated  by  y.  Most  of  our 
examples  are  drawn  from  the  poems  contained  in  this  volume. 
When  the  examples  are  not  quoted,  the  student  may  usually 
find  them  by  referring  to  our  Table  of  Contents. 

2.  'pjkree-Une  Stanzas.  Of  the  three-line  stanza  there  are 
two  principal  forms.  One  is  the  triplet,  in  which  all  the 
lines  rhyme  to  the  same  sound,  aaa,  bbb,  ccc,  etc.  See  Edmund 
Gosse's  Lying  in  the  Grass  : 

I  do  not  hunger  for  a  well-stored  mind, 
I  only  wish  to  live  my  life  and  find 
My  heart  in  imison  with  all  mankind. 

My  life  is  like  the  single  dewy  star 

That  trembles  on  the  horizon's  primrose-bar  — 

A  microcosm  where  all  things  Uving  are. 

The  other  form  is^^rzojim^  used  with  astonishing  diversity  of 
effect  by  Dante  in  the  Divine  Comedy,  and  by  Shelle}^  in  his  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind.  The  first  and  third  lines  of  terza  rima  rhyme ; 
the  second  gives  the  rhyme  to  the  first  and  third  of  the  next 
stanza,  thus :   aba,  bcb,  cdc,  etc. 

3.  Four-line  Stanzas.  Of  the  stanza  of  four  verses,  called 
ordinarily  the  Quatrain,  the  better-known  varieties  (all  iambic) 
are  the  following : 

^i)  Common  Metre.    T&is  is  the  popular  measure,  a  b  < 


xhaii      INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

the  old  ballads  and  of  many  of  our  hymns.  It  consists  of  alter- 
nating lines  of  four  iambic  and  three  iambic  feet  (^xa,  ;^xa) . 

Must  I  be  carried  to  the  skies 

On  flowery  beds  of  ease, 
While  others  fought  to  win  the  prize 

And  sailed  through  bloody  seas? 

Sometimes  one  rhyme  is  masculine  and  the  other  feminine. 
And  frequently  the  stanza  runs  a  b  y  b,  the  third  line  not  rhym- 
ing. See  Coleridge's  The  Ancient  Mariner  and  Mr.  Yeats's 
Father  Gilligan. 

(2)  Long  Metre  and  Short  Metre.  Of  Long  Metre  —  iambic 
tetrajnetery-hyming  a  a  b  b-^Si  ^ood  exaniple  is  the  Doxology, 
"  Praise  Godjfrom  Wnomlall  blessings  flow."  See  also  Mar- 
lowe's The  Passionate  Shepherd,  and  Stevenson's  The  Land 
of  Counterpane.  Of  Short  Metre,  iambic  trimeter  rhyming  a  b 
a  b,  but  with  an  additional  foot  in  the  third  line,  an  example  is  — 

Tli£-wo|ld  ca^j^nd^r  gj^  j     \ 

Tne  Bli^for  wnicK'we  sigh  a 
Ms  itititl^wh^le'S^'lneitO  li*e, 

JfOr  ail  of  death  to  die. 
sj  /  ^/       ^  t 

Of  the  Quatrain  there  are  numerous  other  kinds,  —  such  as 
that  used  by  Burns  in  his  Scots  Wha  Hae,  in  which  the  stanzas 
run  a  a^a  b,c  c  cb,dddb,  the  last  verse  of  each  stanza  taking  the 
b  rhyme ;  or  the  variation  of  Short  Metre,  y  b  y  b,  with  a  dim- 
eter in  the  last  line,  used  by  Keats  in  La  Belle  Dame ;  or  the 
anapaestic  trimeters  of  O'Sullivan's  Ballad  of  the  Fiddler,  rhym- 
ing yaya.  But  the  most  highly  artistic  quatrains  are  :  (i)  the 
Elegiac  Stanza  of  Gray's  Elegy  and  Sir  William  Watson's 
Wordsworth's  Grave,  iambic  pentameters,  rhyming  a  b  a  b ; 
'  (2)  the  In  Memoriam  Stanza  of  Tennyson's  great  elegy,  iambic 
tetrameters,  rhyming  a  b  b  a  ,\  (3)  the  Fitzgerald  Stanza  used 
in  that  poet's  version  of  the  Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam.  This 
last,  not  represented  in  our  book,  is  of  iambic  pentameters, 
rhyming  a  a  y  a: 

Yet,  ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the  Rose ! 
That  Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should  close  ^ 

The  Nightingale  that  in  the  Mjanches  sang, 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  flown  Cgain,  who  knows? 


LARGER   UNITS  OF   VERSE:    STANZAS  xlix 

The  In  Memoriam  and  Fitzgerald  quatrains  are  signally  adapted 
to  the  expression  of  reflective,  didactic,  or  elegiac  moods. 

4.  Stanzas  of  Five,  Six,  and  Seven  Lines.  Five-line  Stanzas 
are  obtained  by  adding  a  rhyme  in  a  or  6,  as  in  Shakespeare's 
Who  is  Sylvia?  {a  b  a  b  a)  or  Shelley's  The  Skylark  {a  b  a  b  b) ; 
or  by  rearranging,  as  in  Mr.  Bridges'  /  Love  all  Beauteous  Things 
(y  ab  b  a). 

Of  Six-line  Stanzas  the  more  common  are :  a  abb  c  c  (Brown- 
ing's All  Service  Ranks  the  Same)  ;  ab  ab  ab  (Byron's  She  Walks 
in  Beauty) ;  a  b  a  b  c  c  (Wordsworth's  /  Wandered  Lonely  as  a 
Cloud,  Mr.  Kipling's  Recessional) ;  a  a  a  b  a  b  (Burns's  To  a 
Mouse) ;  y  ay  ay  a  (Rossetti's  The  Blessed  Damozel) ;  a  ab  c  cb 
.(Shakespeare's  Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind;  Browning's  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra). 

Of  Seven-line  Stanzas  the  best-known  are  the  aabcccboi 
America,  and  the  stanza  named  after  Chaucer — the  Chaucerian, 
or  after  James  I  of  Scotland  —  Rhyme  Royal,  which  runs/ 
ab  ab  b  c  c.  Examples  of  the  rhyme  royal  to  which  the  student 
should  turn  are  Morris's  Apology  before  The  Earthly  Paradise 
and  Mr.  Masefield's  Dauber. 

5.  Stanzas  of  Eight  Lines  and  More.  The  Eight-line  Stanza  is 
frequently  formed  by  doubling  the  system  of  a  quatrain,  —  as 
in  Ben  Jonson's  Drink  to  Me  Only  with  Thine  Eyes  (ab  cb  a  b  cb) 
and  Browning's  The  Year's  at  the  Spring  (a  b  c  d  a  b  c  d) ;  or  by 
adding  one  quatrain  to  another,  as  in  Mr.  Kipling's  If  {ab  a  b 
c  d  c  d)  and  Macaulay's  Horatius  {y  ay  ay  b  y  b) ;  or  by  linking 
together  two  quatrains  in  the  common  rhyme  of  the  second, 
fourth,  and  eighth  lines,  as  in  Swinburne's  The  Garden  of  Proser- 
pine {ab  ab  c  c  cb).  Many  other  combinsCtions  are  used.  See, 
for  instance,  Wordsworth's  l^he  Solitary  Reaper.  Of  the 
numerous  eight-line  varieties  the  most  famous,  however,  are  the 
ottava  rima,  followed  by  Byron  in  Don  Juan  {ab  ab  ab  c  c): 

Most  epic  poems  plunge  in  tnedias  res 

(Horace  makes  this  the  turn-pike  road), 
And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene'er  you  please, 

What  went  before,  —  by  way  of  episode, 
While  seated  after  dinner  at  his  ease, 

Beside  his  mistress  in  some  soft  abode, 
Palace  or  garden,  paradise  or  cavern 
Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern ; 


1  INTRODUCTION   TO    THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

and  second,  the  stanza  of  the  French  ballade,  of  which  an  example 
will  be  given  under  the  fixed  verse-forms  that  use  a  refrain.  Its 
rhymes  run  a  b  a  b  b  c  b  c,  SiS  in  Lang's  Ballade  of  Middle  Age. 

If  we  add  to  the  iambic  pentameters  of  this  scheme  an  Alex- 
andrine (a  verse^  six  iambic  feet),  rhyming  in  c,  we  produce 
the  famous  nine-l^e  Spenserian  Stanza  {a  b  a  b  b  c  b  c  c),a.s  in 
The  Faerie  Queene,  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Burns's  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,  and  Byron's  Childe  Harold. 

There  are  many  recognized  stanzas  of  greater  length  than  those 
described  above.     The  number  of  lines,  the  metrical  length  of- 
each,  and  the  order  of  the  rhymes  are  determined  by  the  poet 
in  accordance  with  his  aim  and  his  skiU  in  metrical  arrangement 
and  verbal  harmony.    The  only  rules  are  that  the  rhythm  be. 
maintained  and  the  stanzas  be  uniform.     When  the  metrical^ 
scheme  is  simple  and  regular  it  may  be  conveniently  repre- 
sented thus  :  for  a  four-line  stanza  of  iambic  tetrameter^  such 
as  that  of  In  Memoriam,  4(4^!:^)  ;    for   a   Chaucerian   Stanza,  | 
8(5.^^)  ;    for  a  Spenserian  Stanza,  ^{<^xa) -\- i{(>xa)  \    and  s6  • 
fortly^ 

VIII.    POEMS  OF  FIXED   STRUCTURE 

In  some  kinds  of  stanzaic  verse  the  whole  poem  is  cast  in  a 
fixed  structural  form.  Having  chosen  one  of  the  traditional 
forms  of  fixed  structure  the  poet  should  abide  by  its  rules. 

25.  The  Regular  Ode.  —  In  general  the  Ode  is  a  l^ric  poem 
expressive  of  exalted  and  enfhusiasticernotien]  Wnenregular 
it  Imitates  tlie  scheme  adopted  by  the"(ireek  lyric  poet,  Pindar. 
In  that  scheme  there  were  three  movements.  The  first,  called 
the  strophe  or  "  turn,"  and  the  second,  called  the  antistrophe  or 
"  reverse  turn,"  were  chanted  by  a  chorus  of  singers  as  they 
moved  up  one  side  of  the  orchestra  of  the  theatre"  and  came 
down  the  other.  The  third  movement,  called  the  epodc,  was 
chanted  after  the  chorus  had  come  to  a  stand.  The  rhythm  of 
the  third  movement  is  trochaic ;  of  the  first  two  iambic.  The 
scheme  is  elaborate  and  not  to  be  lightly  attempted.  We  in- 
clude no  examples  of  the  Regular  Ode.  The  Progress  of  Poetry 
by  Gray  is  regarded  as  the  best  of  the  species  in  English.  A 
more   elastic    form    of    the    ode,   called    irregular,   has    been 


POEMS  OF  FIXED  STRUCTURE  li 

the  vehicle  of  some  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  language; 
for  instance,  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast,  Wordsworth's  Ode  on 
Immortality,  and  Tennyson's  on  The  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington.    Of  these  the  first  two  will  be  found  in  the  text. 

26.  The  Sonnet.  —  The  Sonnet  was  introduced  from  Italy 
by  Wyatt  and  was  employed,  with  variations,  by  Sidney,  Spen- 
ser, Shakespeare  and  many  other  sixteenth-century  poets.     It 
fell  into  disuse  after  the  death  of  Milton,  but  was  revived  toward 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century.     It  has  had  wide  and  merited 
vogue  from  that  time  on.     Thejegkimateor  Italiaii_jgj^^ 
fourteen  lines  arid  rnnfiists  nf  two  part;^  —  ar^nrtaije.  riiyming 
ab  b^aab  b  a,  and  a  sestet^  six  linesjhj^^^'^g  p^^rgrily  r  3^^ecd?, 
or  c  d  cd  c  d.     Examples  of  th€  fourteen  lines  thus  properly  ar- 
ranged are  Milton's  On  his  Blindness,  in  which  the  sestet  con- 
sists of  two  divisions  or  tercets,  running  c  d  e,c  d  e  ;  also  Words- 
worth's TheWorldls  TooMuchwith  Us  and  Keats' s On C hapman' s y 
Homer,  in  which  the  second  of  the  sestets  mentioned  above  i/  , 
u&ed.     For  these,  see  the  selections  in  the  body  of  this  volume. 

The  thoup^ht  or  mood  must  be  significant  and  luci^.  a  poetical 
unjt,  single  in  its  emotional  and  imap^inative  effect.  The  octave 
bears  (he  burden ;  a  doubt,  a  problem,  a  reflection,  a  ^uery,  an 
historical  statement,  a  cry  of  indignation  or  desire,  a  vision  of 
the  ideal.  The  sestet  eases  t^  load,  resolves  the  problem  or 
the  doubt,  answers  the  query,  solaces  the  yearning,  realizes  the 
vision.  Some  writers  of  sonnets  go  so  far  as  to  vary  the  ar- 
rangement of  rhymes  in  the  octave  or  in  the  sestet.  But  the 
legitimate  sonnet  does  not  readily  tolerate  liberties. 

27.  The  Shakesperian  Sonnet  is  a  variety  quite  distinct. 
Exce^W limiting  itself  to  fourteen  lines  it  does  not  pretend  to 
conl|Ki„  to  the  Italian  model,  and  its  effect  is  different.  It 
has  flRher  octave  nor  sestet.  It  consists  of  twelve  lines  (three 
quatrains,  each  of  independent  and  alternating  rhymes)  and  a 
concluding  couplet.  Its  merits  are  those  of  its  distinctive  struc- 
ture. The  concluding,  often  epigrammatic,  couplet,  which  would 
not  be  tolerated  in  tl^e  regular  sonnet,  is  here  a  fitting  climax  to 
>he  three  four-line  stanzas  of  alternating  rhymes  that  have  pre- 
ceded.    This  kind  of  fixed  form  is  sometimes  ca\ledQ,fourieener. 

28.   Fixed  Forms  with  Refrain.  —  Other  forms  of  verse  hav- 


lii  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

ing  a  fixed  rhyme-structure  are  the  rondeau,  rondel,  triolet,  and 
villanelle,  each  of  which  has  two  rhynles,  and  the  ballade,  which 
has  more.  They  are  borrowed  from  French  modfels,  and  they 
are  characterized  in  common  by  the  presence  of  a  refrain. 
Chaucer  and  some  of  his  contemporaries  tried  a  species  of  bal- 
lade, and  Wyatt  wrote  rondeaus.  Rossetti  also  wrote  theni. 
But  it  was  not  until  recently,  and  under  the  leadership  of  poets, 
some  of  them  still  living,  such  as  Austin  Dobson  and  Edmund 
Gosse,  that  the  refrain-structure  obtained  popularity  in  England. 
None  of  its  varieties  may  possess  the  dignity  and  inevitableness 
of  the  sonnet,  but  they  have  lightness,  harmony,  lucidity,  and 
grace. 

1.  The  Rondeau.  An  example  of  this  form  of  poem-structure, 
entitled  With  Pipe  and  Flute,  is  printed  among  our  selections 
from  Mr.  Dobson,  below.  If  the  student  will  turn  to  it,  he  will 
observe  that  it  consists  of  thirteen  Jines  arranged  in  three  sec- 
tions ;  and  that  the  second  and  third  sections  conclude  with  an 
unrhymed  refrain  which  is  itself  a  repetition  of  the  first  few 
words  of  the  first  line,  —  "  With  pipe  and  flute."  These  words 
are  the  keynote  of  the  poem.  The  scheme  runs  aabh  a,aab  R^ 
a  a  b  b  a  R  (R  standing  for  the  refrain). 

2.  The  Rondel  has  thirteen,  or  fourteen,  lines ;  and  like  the 
rondeau  it  is  divided  into  three  sections.  If  the  student  will  turn 
to  Mr.  Dobson's  rondel  The  Wanderer,  given  below,  he  will 
notice  that  the  first  section  has  four  lines,  the  second  four,  and 
the  third  five.  He  will  notice  also  that  the  second  section  closes 
with  a  refrain  which  consists  of  the  first  two  lines  of  the  poem, 
and  that  the  third  section  closes  with  a  refrain  which  consists 
of  only  the  first  line  of  the  poem  —  "  Love  comes  back  to  his 
vacant  dwelling."  If  we  indicate  the  refrain  lines  by  capitals, 
the  scheme  will  appear  as  A  B  b  a,  a  b  A  B,  a  b  b  a  A.  In  the 
rondel  of  fourteen  lines  the  only  essential  difference  is  that  the 
refrain  of  the  last  section  repeats  both  of  the  opening  lines.  The 
Wanderer  would  be  a  rondel  of  fourteen  lines  if  it  ended  thus : 


Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling,  — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore. 

The  scheme  of  the  third  section  would  then  run  ab  b  a  A  B. 


POEMS  OF  FIXED  STRUCTURE  liii 

3.  The  Triolet,  like  the  rondel,  repeats  not  merely  a  snatch 
of  a  verse,  but  a  whole  line  or  two  in  its  refrain.  It  consists  of 
eight  lines  rhyming  ABaAabAB,  and  it  is  desirable  that 
the  refrains  (indicated  as  before  by  capitals)  be  varied  in  sen- 
tence-structure or  meaning.  A  good  example  is  Mr.  Dobson's 
Rose  Crossed  the  Road,  to  which  the  student  should  turn. 
"-  4.  The  Villanelle.  also,  owes  much  of  its  charm  to  a  subtle 
handling  of  the- refrain.  This  structural  form  possesses  a  singu- 
larly graceful  and  soothing  harmony,  and  is  adapted  to  themes 
of  serious  and  reminiscent  mood,  sometimes  plaintive.  If  the 
student  will  turn  to  Mr.  Dobson's  exquisite  verses,  For  a  Copy 
of  Theocritus,  he  will  observe  that  the  villanelle  consists  of  five 
stanzas  of  three  lines  apiece  (tercets)  concluded  by  a  quatrain. 
The  tercets  run  aha.  The  first  lin^  of  the  first  tercet  —  "  O 
Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  "  —  becomes  the  third,  or  refrain, 
of  the  second  and  fourth  tercets ;  the  third  line  oi.the  first  tercet 
—  "  Thine  was  the  happier  Ag^  of  Gold  "  —  reappears  as  the 
third  line,  or  refrain,  of  the  third  and  fifth  tercets.  The  two 
refrains  compose  the  final  lines  of  the  quatrain.  They  are  the 
burden  of  the  whole.  The  scheme  may  be  represented  as  fol- 
lows: A^hA"",  abA\  abA\  abA\  abA^,  abA^A^  (^1  standing 
for  the  first  refrain  ;   ^^  for  the  second). 

5.  The  Ballade  is  of  greater  length  than  the  preceding,  and 
it  employs  more  than  two  rhymes.  The  refrain  is  still  the  char- 
acteristic feature.  The  ballade  has  greater  potentialities  than 
any  other  of  the  French  fixed  forms  :  it  is  sublime  or  humorous, 
subtle  or  naive,  serious  or  ironical,  but  always  graceful  and 
melodious.  It  is  capable  of  varied  imagery  and  of  rich  and 
unexpected,  but  dignified,  harmony.  An  amusing  and  highly 
instructive  example  is  Andrew  Lang's  Ballade  of  Middle  Age, 
printed  in  our  selections  from  that  author.  It  will  delight 
youth  as  well  as  those  whose  hair  has  begun  to  turn.  This 
ballade  consists  of  three  stanzas  of  eight  lines  each,  and  a  quat- 
rain, called  the  envoy,  or  "  message."  The  rhyme  scheme  is 
ab  abbcbCioT  the  first  three  octaves,  and  b  cbCioi  the  envoy, 
(the  C  standing  for  the  refrain).  The  envoy,  according  to  former  > 
custom,  was  addressed  to  some  person  of  high  degree,  king  or 
prince.    It  is  both  a  dedication  and  a  summing  up  of  the  vital 


liv  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

thought  of  the  poem.     Other  forms  of  the  ballade  obtain,  but 
\    the  fundamental  system  is  illustrated  by  the  Ballade  of  Middle 
Age. 

IX.    THE  KINDS  OF  POETRY 


\ 


/  29.   The  principal  kinds  of  poetry  are :  the  lyrical,  which  is 

^^isL^e  nature  of  song,  whether  set  to  music  or  intended  to  be 
"*** — -.jieaaT^the  narrative,  in  which  the  poet  tells  a  story,  or  describes 
characters  and  scenes  in  detail  and  in  order  as  if  he  were  telling 
a  story ;  the  dramatic,  in  which  the  characters,  speaking  and  act- 
ing, play  their  own  story  out  before  us. 

30.  Lyric  Poetry.  —  The  Lyric  expresses  personal  emotion  in 
j  a  "  singable  "  or,  at  any  rate,  tuneful  form.  The  emotion  is 
personal,  whether  it  arises  from  the  poet's  individual  experience 
or  the  experience  of  others  with  whom  lie  sympathizes,  or 
from  an  experience  that  he  has  imagined  and  made  his  own. 
(i)  In  its  most  intense  mood  the  lyric  is  the  expression  of  in- 
i  dividual  feeling  or  passion.  (2)  In  a  calmer  mood  it  expresses 
a  sentiment  aroused  by  contemplation  of  nature  or  of  external 
'  events.  (3)  In  its  highest  manifestation  the  lyric  gives  imagi- 
native utterance  to  emotions,  sentiments,  ideals  that  are  uni- 
versal and  uplift  humanity. 

The  lyric  had  its  origin  in  the  chorus  of  primitive  peoples 
sung  by  the  whole  of  a  community  to  celebrate  some  event 
affecting  all  alike.  The  tune  and  the  words  were  made  up  little 
by  little  by  different  persons  in  the  singing  crowd.  It  was  not 
till  a  later  period  that  an  individual  poet  composed  the  whole 
song. 

The  more  simple  and  profound  the  feeling  that  movcs  the 
poet  and  the  more  nearly  he  expresses  the  instincts  of  the 
people,  the  more  likely  is  his  lyric  to  take  the  formx  of  song. 
The  piore  reflective  and  literary  the  lyric,  the  less  is  it  likely  to 
be  sung.  But  it  must  always  stir  the  emotions,  not  only  by  its 
rhythm  and  imager}^  but  by  ,the  tuneful  quality  of  its  words,  — 
as  if  it  were  adapted  to  the  singing  voice.  Even  the  restrained 
and  thoughtful  lyrics  of  modern  times  fulfil  these  requirements. 
In  brief,  the  lyric  .(j)  should  be  emotional  and  sincere  and 
tuneful.     (2)  It  should  be  the  record  of  a  single  emotion  ;   (3)  if 


TEE  KINDS  OF  POETRY  Iv 

reflective,  it  should  be  the  more  highly  imaginative;  (4)  if 
narrative  or  dramatic  in  style,  it  should  aim  not  to  tell  a  story 
but  to  give  the  emotional  atmosphere  of  a  story  at  some  crisis 
in  its  career ;  (5)  it  must  not  relax  the  emotional  strain ;  (6)  its 
mood  and  purpose  should  be  free  from  all  ambiguity.  (7)  Its 
imagery  may  be  rich  and  allusive,  but  it  is  generally  simple ;  it 
should  never  be  profuse.  (8)  The  lyric  is  usually  short. 
(9)  The  style  should  be  natural,  easy  to  understand,  and  grace- 
ful. 

There  may  be  as  many  kinds  of  lyric  poem  as  there  are  moods 
to  be  sung  and  degrees  of  emotional  intensity  in  the  singer. 

1.  The  Song  is  simple  in  phrase  and  metre,  is  divided  into 
stanzas,  and  is  brief  and  to  the  point.  In  sentiment  it  is  per- 
sonal or  communal,  (i)  Personal  songs  spring  from  emotions 
that  affect  the  intimate  interests  of  the-  indi"^dual  —  his  loves . 
and  despairs,  hopes  and  fears,  joys  and  griefs,  his  jest  and, 
earnest,  his  ideals.  Of  such  are  Burns's  A  Red,  Red  Rose  and 
Bonie  Doon,  Tennyson's  Sweet  and  Low,  Shakespeare's  Under 
the  Greenwood  Tree.  Many  of  the  best  songs  were  crooiled  in 
the  making  to  the  airs  for  which  they  were  designed.  (2)  Songs 
of  the  Communal  type  arise  from  and  affect  the  broader  social 
emotions.  They  are  songs  of  the  religious  feelings  —  the  hymn 
and  sacred  anthem ;  songs  of  patriotishi  —  the  heroic  lay 
(Burns's  Scots  Wha  Hae),  the  national  hymn  and  anthem; 
songs  of  conviviality  (Auld  Lang  Syne),  and  of  the  local  interests 
of  a  group  (Peele's  Harvestmen  a-Singing). 

2.  The  Ode  is  by  its  origin  intended  to  be  sung,  and  though  it 
may  be  dedicated  to  an  individual  subject  or  person  it  deals 
with  emotions  of  the  communal  or  spiritual  kind.  It  is  still 
occasionally  composed  for  musical  accompaniment,  but  more 
frequently  for  reading.  The  ode  lends  itself  to  the  expression  of 
enthusiasm,  of  passion  under  the  control  of  highly  imaginative 
reflection,  of  panegyric  and  dignified  lament.  Its  form  has  been 
already  discussed  in  the  section  devoted  to  Poems  of  FixeH 
Structure.  The  finest  example  in  this,  book  is  Wordsworth's 
Intimations  of  Immortality. 

3.  The  Simple  Lyric  is  a  poem,  sometimes  song-like,  but  in- 
tended for  reading.    The  simple  lyric  is  not  long.     It  is  pri- 


Ivi  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

marily  emotional,  but  also  slightly  meditative.  It  is  frequently 
suggested  by  some  aspect  of  nature  or  by  some  casual  incident. 
Good  examples  are .  Wordsworth's  I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a 
Cloud,  Suckling's  Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover?  Mr. 
Yeats's  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,  and  The  Fiddler  of  Dooney. 

4.  The  Reflective  Lyric  is  less  spontaneous  than  the  preceding. 
The  meditation  is  of  a  graver  cast  and  of  a  more  general  interest, 
and  it  leads  to  a  thoughtful  conclusion.  The  reflective  lyric 
is  sometimes  short,  as  for  instance,  Wordsworth's  My  Heart 
Leaps  Up,  Browning's  Prospice,  Herbert's  Virtue,  Mr.  De  la 
Mare's  The  Truants.  But  in  the  development  of  the  theme 
lyrics  of  nature  or  of  human  passion  may  attain  a  moderate 
length.  Poems  of  this  kind,  in  which  the  speaker  reflects  at 
some  length  upon  his  own  feelings,  are  V Allegro  and  II  Penseroso 
of  Milton,  Browning's  Rabhi  Ben  Ezra,  Tennyson's    Ulysses, 

Sand  the  well-nigh  perfect  lyrics  (not  strictly  odes)  of  Keats,  To 
,  a  Nightingale,  and  On  a  Grecian  Urn.  See  also  under  Dramatic 
Monologue,  §31,  9. 

5.  The  Elegy  is  a  reflective  lyric  suggested  by  the  fact  or  fancy 
of  death,  (i)  The  emotion,  if  personal,  finds  utterance  in  la- 
ment, tempered,  however,  by  tranquil  consideration  of  the  muta- 
bility of  life,  the  immutability  of  something  that  justifies  exist- 
ence. Consider,  for  example,  the  elegies  of  Milton,  Gray, 
Shelley,  and  Arnold  in  this  volume,  and  Tennysoh*S  In  Memo~ 
riam.  (2)  If  the  emotion  is  more  impersonal  it  finds  utterance 
in  a  critical,  but  still  imaginative  and  dignified,  review  of  some 
spiritual  or  historical  phase  of  life,  —  as,  for  instance,  in  Sir 
William  Watson's  Wordsworth^ s  Grave. 

6.  The  Sonnet,  like  the  ode,  was  originally  composed  for  a 
musical  accompaniment.  As  ^,  song  it  was  preferably  of  love, 
(i)  The  elaborate  structure  of  the  sonnet  does  not  lend  itself 
readily  to  the  utterance  of  unadorned  feeling.  (2)  The  best 
English  sonnets  are  a  formal  and  imaginative  expression  of  a 
definite  thought.  (3)  They  are  pervaded  by  a  refined  and  some- 
times highly  spiritual  emotion.  See  the  sonnets  of  Milton  and 
Wordsworth  in  our  text.  (4)  The  sonnet  has  fourteen  lines  and 
a  conventional  scheme  of  movement,  for  which  see  under  Poems 
of  Fixed  Structure. 


THE  KINDS  OF  POETRY  Ivii 

7.  The  lyric  may  also  be  narrative  in  manner  and  dramatic 
in  quality.  Of  the  Narrative  Lyric  examples  are  Browning's 
The  Patriot,  some  of  the  humorous  Adventures  of  Seumas  Beg 
by  Mr.  James  Stephens,  and  Mr.  De  la  Mare's  The  Little  Bird. 
An  example  of  the  Dramatic  Lyric  is  Browning's  Incident  of 
the  French  Camp.  But  whether  narrative  or  dramatic  these 
poems  are  true  to  the  principle  of  the  lyric:  they  express  or 
suggest  the  atmosphere  of  an  emotional  crisis.      '" 

31.  Najratij^e-^R^etry.  —  Narrative  poetry  tells  the  story  of  a 
series  of  events,  or  describes  characters  and  scenes  in  detail  and 
in  order  as  one  would  tell  a  story.  Of  the  essentially  narrative 
poem  the  noblest  type  is  the  Epic. 

I.  The  Epic-  ^^  ^  ralrp  ^,f|d  dig^i^^*^  narrative  in  uniform  and 
majestic  verse  of  a  momentous  action  in  which  heroic  characters 
and  supernatural  beings  take  part  under  the  control  of  the 
Supreme  Being  or  of  destiny?  (i)  The  theme  is  generally  politi- 
cal and  martial,  involving  the  material  welfare  of  a  people  or  of 
peoples.  Sometimes  it  is  religious,  involving  the  spiritual  in- 
terests of  many  peoples.  (2)  The  basis  of  the  story  is  familiar 
to  the  people  concerned,  —  drawn  from  their  traditions,  or 
myths,  or  from  their  bible.  (3)  The  poet  recounts  the  events 
without  betraying  emotion.  He  lets  the  characters  display 
their  motives  and  feelings  by  their  conduct  and  conversation. 
(4)  The  hero  is  either  supernatural  or  of  exalted  personality 
and  power.  (5)  The  action  covers  but  a  short  period,  and  the 
plot  has  completeness  and  unity.  (6)  The  poet  awakens  the 
interest  of  his  readers  by  plunging  at  once  into  the  middle  of  the 
action.  (7)  He  then  turns  to  what  caused  the  conflict  and,  by 
means  of  episodes,  or  brief  digressions,  conveys  the  information 
necessary  to  a  proper  understanding  of  the  main  story.  (8)  The 
epic  awakens  the  sense  of  the  wonderful,  the  awful,  the  sublime. 
(9)  The  metrical  form  is  that  which  national  custom  has  proved 
most  acceptable :  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  dactylic 
hexameter;  in  English,  generally  blank  verse  or  the  six-  or 
seven-stress  iambic  line  of  older  English  narrative  poetry. 

The  Great  Epic  of  old  grew  little  by  little  out  of  still  earlier 
songs  and  narrative  poems  that  celebrated  popular  hferoes. 
These  were  finally  put  together  by  a  school  of  poets  or  by  some 


Iviii        INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

one  poet  into  an  epic  of  the  folk.  Of  such  Great  Folk-Epics 
examples  are  the  IliaU  and  the  Odyssey  of  the  Greeks  and  the 
Beowulf  of  our  Old  English  ancestors.  The  folk-epic  did  not 
aim  to  teach  any  moral  lesson.  The  hearer  or  reader  was  ex- 
pected to  draw  his  own  conclusions  about  the  relations  of  man 
to  man  and  of  man  to  God.  The  Modern  gpic.  though  based 
upon  traditional  stories  and  beliefs,  is  the  composition  of  an 
individual  poet.  Such  epics  are  the  Aeneid  of  Vergil,  the  Divine 
Comedy  of  Dante,  the  Paradise  Lost  of  Milton,  the  Sigurd  the 
Volsung  of  William  Morris.  In  the  modern  and  individual 
epic  the  subject  is  frequently  treated  in  such  a  way  as  to  em- 
phasize some  definite  ideal. 

2.  The  Mock  Epic.  This  species  of  narrative  poem  is  called 
also  ''  mock-heroic."  The  poet  treats  of  a  commonplace  and 
trivial  incident  or  series  of  incidents,  and  makes  it  ridiculous 
by  pretending  that  it  is  serious  and  telling  a  story  about  it  in  the 
grand  manner  of  the  epic.  The  best  examples  in  English  are 
Butler's  Hudihras  and  Pope's  Rape  oj  the  Lock.  For  a  state- 
ment of  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  mock  epic  and  for  illus- 
trations of  the  mock-heroic  style  see  our  Notes  on  the  Rape  oj 
the  Lock. 

3.  The  Ballad  is  a  short  story  in  a  traditional  popular  fdrm  of 
verse  about  individuals  and  events  of  popular  interest.  Some- 
Tfmes  it  is  historical  and  heroic  in  character  but,  more  frequently, 
local  and  romantic,  (i)  The  theme  is  simple.  (2)  It  may  be 
warlike  {Otterhqurne,  Macaulay's  Horatius) ;  or  adventurous 
and  chivalrous  ( The  Robin  Hood  Ballads) ;  or  supernatural 
(The  Demon  Lover,  The  Ancient  Mariner,  Keats's  La  Belle 
Dame  sans  Merci).  It  may  be  of  love  (happily  ending,  The 
Bailiffs  Daughter  of  Islington;  unhappily,  ITelen  of  Kirk- 
connell) ;  or  of  humor  {J  ohn  Gilpin^  s  Ride);  or  of  death  {Bessie 
Bell  and  Mary  Gray).  It  is  often  tragic  or  pathetic.  (3)  It 
combines  lyrical  and  dramatic  qualities.  (4)  The  treatment  is 
conversational  with  question  and  answer,  repetition  of  details 
and  of  statements  and  set  phrases.  (5)  It  makes  free  use  of  the 
refrain. 

Like  the  epic,  the  ballad  was  originally  intended  to  be  sung. 
It  grew  up  among  the  people,  and  the  individuals  who  helped 


THE  KINDS  OF  POETRY  lix 

to  make  it  were  soon  forgotten.  Only  in  later  times  is  it  the  com- 
position of  a  poet  working  by  himself.  Ballads  written  by  indi- 
vidual poets,  for  instance,  Scott,  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  and  Mr. 
Masefield,  are  best  when  they  reproduce  most  nearly  the  at- 
mosphere and  simplicity  of  the  folk-ballad.  Excellent  examples 
in  this  book  are  those  of  Coleridge,  Macaulay,  Mr.  Kipling,  Mr. 
Yeats,  Mr.  Noyes,  and  "  Seumas  O'SuUivan." 

4.  The  Metrical  Romance  is  a  narrative,  generally  of  a  popular 
kind,  dealing  with  the  career  of  individuals,  in,  wonderfu^^ 
romantic  circumstances.  _  (i)  It  is  more  pretentious  than  the 
ballad.  It  is  shorter  than  the  epic,  less  momentous  and  heroic 
in  theme,  and  less  formal  and  dignified.  (2)  The  story  is  some- 
times of  historical  importance,  but  it  is  not  restricted  to  historical 
or  traditional  materials:  it  is  the  fiction  of  a  poet.  (3)  The 
subject  is  of  chivalrous  adventure,  of  love  or  other  personal 
devotion,  sometimes  of  heroism.  (4)  There  may  be  a  super- 
natural element,  but  the  hero  generally  acts  as  if  of  his  own 
free  will.  (5)  The  poem  may  be  written  in  any  metrical  form 
appropriate  to  the  subject,  but  the  style  must  be  easy  and 
popular.  —  The  English  metrical  romance  is  a  product  of  the . 
middle  ages.  Among  the  best  modern  examples  are  Scott's 
Lady  of  the  Lake,  Keats's  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Arnold's  The 
Forsaken  Merman,  Morris's  stories  in  The  Earthly  Paradise,  and 
Mr.  Noyes's  Drake. 

5.  The  Tale  is  simpler  than  the  romance,  (i)  It  does  not 
give  the  appearance  of  dealing  with  heroes  or,  in  a  serious  way, 
with  supernatural  agencies.  •(2)  It  narrates  without  any  pomp 
or  pose  the  loves,'  ambitions^  trials,  and  adventures  (often 
humorous)  of  every-day  individuals  in  a  domestic  or  other  un- 
pretentious sphere  of  life.  (3)  It  presents  a  picture  of  rnaujiers 
and  m<;y:als  generally  of  the  poet's  own  age,  but  sometimes  of  an 
earlier  period.  (4)  The  principal  character  may  be  genuinely 
h^ic,  but  if  so  he  is  utterly  unconscious  of  the  fact.  —  Fine 
examples  of  the  Tale  are  some  of  the  stories  in  Chaucer's  Canter- 
bury Tales,  Bums's  Tarn  0'  Shantcr,  Tennyson's  Enoch  Arden, 
Mr.  ICipling's  Gunga  Din,  and  Mr.  Masefield 's  Dauber. 

6.  A  llegory  makes  use  of  the  narr;i^tive  form  for  the  purpose  of 
a)tiveying  a  lesson.    It  personifies  virtues  or  vices  or  other 


Ix  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

human  qualities,  that  is  to  say,  represents  them  as  men  and 
women.  It  makes  them  characters  in  a  story,  sometimes  in  a 
drama.  The  Faerie  Queene  is  the  noblest  allegory  in  English 
poetry.  It  has  the  dignity,  style,  and  stately  imagery  of  the 
modern  epic  and  the  chivalry  of  the  old  metrical  romance.  It 
has  at  times  the  human  interest  of  real  characters  and  the  nar- 
rative interest  of  the  epic  and  the  romance.  What  it  lacks  in 
these  respects  it  makes  up  by  poetic  beauty  and  exalted  moral 
emotion.  In  prose  our  noblest  allegory  is  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's 
Progress. 

The  foregoing  are  the  principal  kinds  of  narrative  poetry  in 
which  the  emphasis  is  laid  upon  the  recital  of  events  rather  than 
upon  description.  Characters  and  scenes  are  described,  but  the 
main  artistic  interest  is  that  of  plot.  There,  is  however,  another 
kind  of  narrative  poetry  in  which  the  author  (i)  makes  just  as 
much  of  the  description  as  he  does  of  the  plot ;  as,  for  instance,  the 
Idyll.  Or  (2)  helays  the  stress  altogether  upon  the  recital  in 
due  order,  not  of  events,  but  of  objects  and  of  the  poet's  observa- 
tions and  sometimes  of  the  emotions  arising  from  them.  Such 
a  poem  is  called  Descriptive. 

7.  The  Idyll  lays  as  much  emphasis  upon  the  pictur^que  qual- 
ity  of  scenes,  characters,  or  events,  as  upon  the  story  itself  — 
sometimes  more.  The  name  means  ''  a  little  type  or  form  " ; 
or,  some  say,  "  a  little  picture."  The  idyll  may  be  a  little  epic 
in  form,  or  a  little  drama,  or  a  little  lyrical  description.  It  may 
combine  qualities  of  all  three  kinds.  We  regard  it  here  as  a 
narrative  form  of  poetry. 

''  (i)  The  idyll  is  apparently  simple,  but  it  is  not,  like  the  ballad, 
a  popular  product ;  it  is  a  highly  artistic  Hterarv  form.  (2)  It 
presents  a  fragment  of  life  in  minute  detail.  (3)  It  is  always 
pictorlair'  (4)  it  tells  its  story  or  depicts  its  scenes  and  char- 
acters in  a  tranquil  manner,  or  at  any  rate  with  emotional 
restraint.  (5)  It  is  concerned  with  the  situation  rather  than 
with  the  action.  (6)  The  situation  is  colored  by  the  surround- 
ings, generally  as  if  nature  were  sympathizing  or  influencing. 
(7)  If  the  idyll  deals  with  country  interests  slyk'  domestic  scenes 
—  the  life  of  shepherds  or  farmers,  there  may  be  action  and  a 
simple  plot  (the  Book  of  Ruth,  —  prose ;   some  of  the  idylls  of 


THE  KINDS  OF  POETRY  Ixi 

the  Greek  poet,  Theocritus,  —  verse) ;  or  there  may  be  scarcely  V 
any  action  and  the  quality  may  be  lyrical  (Burns 's  Cotter's  Sat-/ 
urday  Night,  Mr.  Gosse's  Lying  in  the  Grass).     Such  idylls  of| 
rural  life  are  ca\\td(^astdr^s^    (8)  The  idyll  may  deal  with  the\ 
more  refined  social  life  of  city  or  court,  and  in  dialogue  form 
(Theocritus,    again).     (9)  It    occasionally    deals    with    heroic 
themes  (the  Book  of  Esther  ;   Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King). 
The"  Idylls  of  the  King  are  indeed  so  heroic,  so  full  of  action  and 
narrative  interest ^  that  they  are  not  idylls  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  word.     They  are  rather  little  epics  or  episodes  of  an  epic 
theme.     (10)  The  idyll  may  involve  the  action  and  emotions 
even  of  supernatural  beings   (Theocritus ;     the  •  Marpessa  of 
Stephen  Phillips) . 

8.  The  Descriptive  Poem.  The  descriptive  poem  lays  no  stress 
upon  events  or  plot-interest,  but  recites  the  n.nthor's  ohseri)(iiinns 
about  characters  or  natural  objects.  The  poem,  however,  is 
still  of  the  narrative  kind.  No  writer  has  come  nearer  perfection 
in  this  form  of  poetry  than  Chaucer.  In  the  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbury  Tales  Chaucer  depicts  characters  just  as  he  saw  them 
or  heard  about  them,  without  elaborating  details  of  action  or 
indulging  in  profound  reflection.  Each  of  the  descriptions  in 
the  Prologue  is  a  portrait ;  some  are  almost  impersonal  photo- 
graphs. Chaucer  refrains  from  any  display  of  emotion,  but 
he  awakens  in  the  reader  a  lively  interest  in  persons  as  real  as 
imagination  could  make  them.  He  does  not  tell  a  story ;  but 
his  account  of  each  character,  such  as  the  Poor  Parson  or  the 
Wife  of  Bath,  is  narrative  in  quality,  and  the  account  of  all  the 
characters  in  succession  gives  one  much  of  the  pleasure  derived 
from  a  story  of  events. 

When,  on  the  other  hand,  the  descriptive  poet  indulges  in 
reflection  about  the  persons  or  scenes  that  he  depicts  and  when 
he  betrays  his  feelings  about  them,  his  account,  while  still  a 
narration,  takes  on  a  lyrical  tinge.  Indeed  it  is  frequently  hard 
to  decide  whether  the  poem  is  not  really  a  reflective  lyric.  Ex- 
amples would  be  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village  and  Wordsworth's 
Tintern  Abbey  3ind  Thomson's  Seasons.  In  that  most  imagina- 
tive descriptive  poem,  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  there  is  a 
slight  narrative  thread ;  but  all  that  Byron  narrates  is  the  series 


Ixii         INTRODUCTION   TO  TEE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

of  reflections  atid  emotions  awakened  in  him  by  natural  objects 
and  scenes,  by  historical  events  and  characters. 

9,  The  Dramatic  Monologue.  In  this  form  of  poetry  —  not 
part  of  a  drama,  but  an  independent  narrative  —  the  speaker 
rehearses  situations  and  emotions  in  such  a  way  as  to  suggest 
that  those  who  are  listening  to  him  are  taking  part  in  the  con- 
versation. He  conveys  this  impression  by  making  reference 
to  their  supposed  remarks  and  gestures.  Browning  is  a  master 
of  the  dramatic  monologue.  See,  for  instance,  his  Andrea  del 
Sarto  and  My  Last  Duchess.  Other  dramatic  monologues,  such 
as  Tennyson's  Ulysses  and  (Enone,  have  not  only  the  narrative 
but  the  lyrical  characteristic.  Browning's  Rahhi  Ben  Ezra  is 
more  purely  reflective  and  lyrical  than  narrative  or  dramatic. 

32.  Poetry  by  Action;  Drama. — The  drama  presents  the 
story  of  a  conflict  in  human  life.  The  events  are  conveyed  to  us 
not  by  way  of  narrative  but  by  the  characters  of  the  story  as  if 
present  in  person  and,  by  their  conduct  and  speech,  playing  out 
the  conflict  before  our  eyes.  When  the  drama  is  put  upon  the 
stage  the  characters  are  represented  by  actors.  The  drama 
selects  only  those  motives,  characters,  and  situations  that  are 
necessary  to  the  plot.  The  plot  must  have  unity  of  interest 
and,  therefore,  unity  of  action  and  an  adequate,  that  is  to  say, 
a  satisfactory  conclusion,  whether  happy  or  unhappy. 

In  its  structure  the  drama  is  divided  into  "  acts,"  generally 
three  or  four  or  five,  (i)  The  earlier  part  of  the  play  is  the 
Exposition.  It  shows  the  reason  for  the  story,  the  nature  of 
the  coming  conflict,  the  motives  of  the  individuals  concerned. 
(2)  The  second  stage  of  the  play  is  one  of  thickening  plot  and 
growing  interest.  It  is  the  Complication.  The  threads  of  con- 
flicting motive  are  entangled  and  the  resulting  action  is  devel- 
oped in  an  ascending  series  of  situations.  The  last  of  these 
situations  conducts  the  action  to  its  Climax.  The  climax  is 
some  important  change  of  fortune  or  some  discovery  of  a  secret, 
or  both.  This  is  the  highest  point  of  interest,  so  far :  one  party 
or  individual  seems  to  have  the  upper  hand.  But  our  anxiety 
is  not  allayed,  nor  is  our  curiosity  satisfied,  because  we  are  not 
yet  sure  how  the  end  is  to  be  brought  about.  (3)  The  third 
stage,  generally  shorter  than  the  second,  is  the  Solution.     It 


THE  KINDS  OF  POETRY  bdii 

unravels  the  complication  and  conducts  the  action  to  its  con- 
clusion :  in  Tragedy,  to  a  Catastrophe  or  "  downfall  " ;  in 
Comedy,  to  a  Denouement  or  *'  unknotting  "  —  a  happy  ending. 
(4)  In  a  five-act  play  the  complication  is  well  under  way  before 
the  end  of  the  first  act.  The  climax  may  be  reached  by  the  end 
of  the  third  act  or  the  middle  of  the  fourth. 

I.  In  Tragedy  the  theme  is  grave  and  exalted.  The  conflict 
involves  life  and  death,  for  it  is  a  clash  between  man's  will  and 
uncompromising  law,  physical  or  human  or  divine.  The  indi- 
viduals concerned  are  ranged  on  either  side  of  the  struggle,  and 
the  struggle  is  pursued  until  the  principal  character  and  what  he 
represents  are  crushed. 

(i)  The  motives  must  be  sufficient.  (2)  The  characters 
must  not  be  (unless  the  play  is  an  allegory)  mere  personifications 
of  a  virtue  or  a  vice  but  individuals  of  flesh  and  blood,  each  with 
his  distinct  peculiarities.  (3)  Comic  scenes  are  admissible ; 
by  contrast  with  them  the  tragic  shadow  is  deepened.  (4)  The 
action,  no  matter  how  startling,  must  be  reasonable  and  prob- 
able. (5)  The  catastrophe  is  foreshadowed  and  inevitable; 
it  is  an  unavoidable  consequence  of  the  action.  (6)  The  princi- 
pal character,  or  "  hero,"  may  have  an  evil  purpose  (Richard  III, 
Macbeth) ;  or  he  may  be  deluded  by  himself  or  by  others  into 
espousing  a  purpose  that  pu'l^  him  in  the  wrong  (Brutus,  Othello) 
or,  while  pursuing  a  justifiable  purpose,  he  may  be  involved 
by  accident  or  by  impulse  in  cirjumstances  over  which  he  has 
no  control  and  that  close  upon  him  and  crush  him  (Romeo, 
Juliet,  Hamlet).  (7)  Minor  characters,  even  when  they  are 
innocent,  are  often  implicated  and  lose  their  lives  (Ophelia, 
Desdemona).  (8)  Tragedy  moves  us  to  feelings  of  pity  and 
terror.  It  also  awakens  in  us  a  sense  of  fear  lest  a  like  fate  over- 
take us.  (9)  Because  the  outcome  is  inevitable  it  awakens  in 
us  a  nobler  emotion  than  that  of  pity  for  individuals  —  a  spirit- 
ual sympathy  with  all  human  frailty  and  sorrow,  and  a  more 
exalted  emotion  than  that  of  ordinary  fear,  or  terror  —  a  sense 
of  awe,  %  feeling  of  reverence.  We  see  how  petty,  and  selfish, 
and  vain  our  views  of  life  were.  We  go  forth,  all  passion  spent, 
chastened  and  uplifted.  We  find  comfort  and  peg,ce  in  bowing 
to  the  decree  of  providence  or  of  destiny. 


Ixiv        INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

2.  Between  tragedy  and  comedy  lies  the  Reconciling  Drama 
or  Romantic  Play,  (i)  The  motives  animating  the  central 
characters  are  serious  and  vital  and  the  parties  are  ranged  for 
conflict,  but  the  uncompromising  individuals  are  thwarted  by 
others  possessed  of  good  humor  and  common  sense.  (2)  The 
disaster  is  averted.  (3)  The  vicious  are  punished  or  rebuked 
and  the  virtuous  rewarded.  —  The  Merchant  of  Venice  is  an 
example  of  the  more  serious  drama  of  reconcilement ;  The  Tem- 
pest of  the  more  romantic  play  of  love. 

3.  In  Comedy  Proper  the  atmosphere  is  gay.  There  are  no 
supreme  moral  issues,  no  heroic  characters.  The  theme  is  of 
social  complications ;  generally  of  love,  to  be  sure,  and  its  em- 
barrassments, but  also  of  whims,  follies,  humors,  absurdities, 
accidents,  misunderstandings,  resulting  in  a  temporary  en- 
tanglement. 

(i)  Comedy  Proper  sets  before  us  a  picture  of  society  as  it  is : 
of  characters  that  are  natural,  even  ordinary,  but  amusing 
because  of  their  idiosyncrasies  and  diverse  aims ;  of  the  customs 
of  the  day  and  the  caprices  and  manners  of  individuals.  (2)  The 
play  gives  us  pleasure  rather  because  of  its  vivid  imitation  of 
characters  than  because  of  any  sensational  surprise  or  thrill  of 
plot,  that  is,  of  action.  (3)  The  spectator  may  not  know  how 
the  complication  is  to  be  disentangled,  but;  he  is  confident  that 
it  will  be,  and  happily.  (4)  He  has  a  foreknowledge  of  most  of 
the  misunderstandings  and  is  generally  taken  into  the  secret 
of  the  practical  jokes.  This  knowledge  gives  him  a  sense  of 
superiority  over  those  who  are  embarrassed.  He  often  feels 
as  if  he  were  playing  the  jokes  himself.  (5)  The  denouement, 
or  unravelling  of  the  complication,  is  often  unexpected.  It 
should  be  natural,  but  it  is  not  always  devised  so  carefully  as  the 
catastrophe  in  a  tragedy.  (6)  The  spectator  does  not  pity  those 
who  are  in  difficulties,  because  the  situations  may  change  or 
the  characters  look  at  things  differently.  Both  are  probably 
ludicrous.  The  spectator  is  moved  to  mirth  —  the  opposite 
of  the  pity  awakened  by  tragedy.  Or,  better  stilL  to  mirth 
mingled  with  fellow-feeling,  —  which  is  humor.  He  has  no 
sense  of  fear,  as  in  tragedy,  but  of  hope,  of  confidence  in  a  happy 
outcome.     (7)  In  comedy  the  hero  succeeds ;  he  asserts  himself. 


THE  KINDS  OF  POETRY  Ixv 

Those  who  are  shamming  or  shifty  or  pretentious  are  held  up  to 
ridicule.  (8)  Comedy  shows  us  that  life  is  more  amusing  than 
we  thought.  It  shows  that  vain  pretensions  are  not  finally 
successful,  and  that  our  mistakes  and  failures  are  not  necessarily 
fatal.  (9)  Comedy  is  more  colloquial  than  tragedy  and  less 
frequently  written  in  verse. 

Comedy  Proper  deals  with  characters,  situations,  and  manners. 
As  You  Like  It  and  Twelfth  Night  blend  all  three  but  empha- 
size the  characters.  The  Comedy  of  Errors  lays  the  stress  on 
situations ;  the  School  for  Scandal,  on  manners.  Such  comedies 
are  reasonable :  they  do  not  exist  solely  for  the  purpose  of  stirring 
empty  sensations,  and  provoking  laughter.     They  portray  life. 

4.  Farce  is  stuffed  with  ridiculous  situations  and  whims,  and 
cares  not  how  improbable  the  complication  may  be,  provided 
the  spectators  explode  in  loud  guffaws. 

5.  Melodrama  is  a  sensational  kind  of  dramatic  romance  which 
introduces  music.  It  arouses  violent  emotions,  but  the  motives 
are  insufficient  and  the  plot  is  improbable. 

6.  The  Masque  is  dramatic  in  form  and  method,  but  the  inter- 
est usually  lies  in  spectacular  effect.  In  former  days,  the  char- 
acters were  masked  shepherds,  shepherdesses,  and  supernatural 
beings,  who  sang  and  danced.  Mythology  and  allegory  are 
freely  used.  The  masques  of  Ben  Jonson  and  Fletcher  are 
poetic.  But  the  noblest,  most  sincerely  moral,  and  dramatic 
of  masques  is  Milton's  Comus. 

33.  Didactic  Poetry,  or  Versified  Thought.  —  Not  all  litera- 
ture written  in  verse  is  poetry.  Sometimes  it  is  merely  versified 
thought.  Poetry  fires  the  imagination  and  moves  the  feelings. 
iT  delights  us  with  beauty.  When  the  writer  aims  to  communi- 
cateinf  ormation ,  to  convey  a  moral  or  to  change  our  views  about 
personal,  social,  and  political  affairs,  he  is  didactic :  he  is  teaching. 
Even  though  he  may  be  writing  in  verse,  he  is  not  writing  poetry.^ 
Such  literature  may  be  artistic,  but  only  too  often  it  is  practical 
or  sciejitific. 

Some  works  in  verse  are  on  the  border  between  poetry  and 
practical  literature:  (i)  Satire  attacks  individuals  or  social 
and  political  follies  and  vices,  sometimes  with  the  purpose  of  re- 
forming them,  but  always  with  ridicule.     It  is  poetic  only  when 


Ixvi        INTRODUCTION    TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

it  provokes  us  not  to  mockery  and  bitterness  but  to  happy- 
laughter  ;  when  it  stirs  the  creative  imagination  and  gives  us 
unselfish  delight.  In  so  far  as  it  does  this,  the  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
a  Social  Satire,  is  poetry.  Personal  Satire,  on  the  other  hand, 
such  as  Pope's  Dunciad  or  Byron's  English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers,  and  Political  Satire,  such  as  Dryden's  Absalom  and 
Achitophel,  do  not  aim  to  give  us  poetic  delight  but  to  make  us 
despise  the  persons  ridiculed.  They  use  verse  form  to  sharpen 
the  sting.  They  are  didactic  verse,  or  versified  thought,  rather 
than  poetry.  (2)  Some  RejUcHve^Poems,  like  Pope's  Essay  on 
Man,  which  is  almost  altogether  moralizing  and  rhetorical,  are 
versified  thought.  Large  portions  of  Wordsworth's  Excursion 
are  purely  didactic.  Only  when  the  reflection  is  imaginative, 
and  productive  of  emotional  delight,  is  the  Excursion  poetry. 

X.    THE  JUDGMENT  OF  POETRY 

There  are  many  tests  of  poetry.  Only  a  few  can  be  considered 
here. 

34.  The  Supremely  Poetic  Line.  —  Matthew  Arnold  has  sug- 
gested that  in  order  to  judge  of  the  merit  of  a  poet  we  should 
compare  his  best  lines  or  passages  with  those  of  the  great  masters 
of  poetry,  —  that  is  to  say,  with  lines  in  which  men  have  agreed 
to  recognize  "  high  poetic  quality."  This  is,  no  doubt,  a  useful 
test.  He  gives  us  examples  of  these  ''  best~of-all  lines  "  from 
poets  of  the  highest  repute,  and  shows  us  how  they  may  be  used 
as  touchstones  to  determine  whether  or  not  the  work  of  less  recog- 
nized poets  is  pure  gold.  Unfortunatelv,  he  gives  us  no  reason 
for  his  choice  of  ''best-of-all  lines,"  other  than  that  they  have  the 
''  mark  "  of  high  beauty,  truth,  and  power.  But  exactly  what 
that  "  mark  "  is,  he  does  not  explain.  The  only  way  to  dis- 
cover what  the  "  mark  "  is  would  be  to  examine  Arnold's  ex- 
amples of  it  and  determine  what  characteristics  of  ''  high  poetic 
quality  "  they  have  in  common. 

But  first  let  us  think  for  ourselves  for  a  moment.  Have  we 
not  all  from  time  to  time  recognized  a  line  as  *'  best-of-all  " 
although  we  may  not  have  stayed  to  ask  why  it  was  *'  best  "? 
Have  we  not  sometimes  in  reading  poetry  come  across  a  line  or 
a  passage  that  appeared  to  be  strangely  familiar  at  first  sight, 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  POETRY  Ixvii 

and  have  we  not  said,  "  I  have  had  a  sense  of  that  truth  all  my 
life,  but  somehow  I  have  never  grasped  the  full  meaning  of 
it,  nor  have  I  heard  any  one  express  its  worth  and  beauty  until 
now  "?  Have  we  not  all  felt  "  the  strangely  moving  power  of 
passages  in  certain  poems  "  ?  Did  they  not  push  open  a  door  and 
"  steal  into  our  hearts  and  thrill  them  with  the  mystery  of  fact, 
the  wildness  and  the  pang,"  and  the  fulness  and  beauty  of  life? 
Such  passages,  as  William  James  has  said,  make  "  poetry  alive 
and  significant  for  us." 

It  is  just  such  lines  or  passages  that  Arnold  selects  as  "  best- 
of-all."  And  the  reason  for  his  choice  is  (i)  that  they  touch  a 
chord  in  the  heart  of  every  one  and  set  it  a-jquivering,  and  (2)  that 
they  suggest  to  the  mind  the  whole  truth  about  some  fact  or 
phase  or  ideal  of  life  that  had  seemed  beyond  the  power  of  words 
to  express,  and  (3)  that  they  express  the  truth  in  words  that  are 
precisely  adequate  to  the  meaning  and  are  rhythmically  and 
musically  appropriate  to  the  emotion.  Such  lines  of  inevitable 
poetry  Arnold  uses  as  touchstones. 

One  of  Arnold's  touchstones  is  the  passage  from  Paradise  Lost, 
in  which  Satan,  defying  the  Almighty,  says,  ''  All  is  not  lost ; 
the  unconquerable  will  "  remains  — 

And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield. 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome. 

In  this  passage  the  '*  unconquerable  will  "  lives  for  us  in  the  two 
lines  that  immortalize  the  extremes  to  which  Courage  can  go : 
courage  that  in  defeat  confesses  it  not ;  courage  that  in  conflict 
cannot  be  defeated.  Notice  also  how  the  sounds  of  the  con- 
trasting words  match,  —  "  courage  "  with  ''  overcome,"  and 
"  never  "  with  ''  else." 

Another  of  Arnold's  touchstones  is  the  famous  passage  in 
Childe  Harold  that  tells  how  the  dying  gladiator  in  the  Coli- 
seum hears  "  the  inhuman  shout  "  of  the  spectators,  — 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away,  — 

with  his  children  by  the  Danube  and  their  mother.  But  "he, 
their  sire,"  is 

Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. 


Ixviii      INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

In  the  preceding  stanza  occurs  another  of  these  passages  of  su- 
preme poetic  merit,  — 

his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death  but  conquers  agony. 

The  words  italicized  in  the  examples  above  are  expressive  of 
the  contrasts  that  bring  to  our  hearts  the  meaning  of  the  crisis. 
They  also  heighten  by  the  melody  or  the  harmony  of  their  sounds 
the  appeal  to  our  emotions.  Such  lines  express  a  significant  and 
<.^ rilling  thought  in  its  aspects  most  opposed  and  yet  most  vital ; 
and  they  express  it  in  the  affecting,  imaginative,  balanced,  and 
rhythmical  form  appropriate  to  the  thought  as  a  whole.  Some- 
times the  supremely  poetic  line  presents  but  one  of  the  opposing 
aspects  of  the  crisis  and  a  glimpse  of  the  whole.  But  the 
glimpse  is  sufficient  to  give  us  a  vision  of  the  truth.  These  are 
the  "  marks  "  of  poetic  truth,  beauty,  and  power,  that  charac- 
terize Arnold's  touchstones.    " 

Many  such  lines  the -student  will  discover  with  delight  in  the 
poems  included  in  this  volume.  For  instance:  In  Words- 
worth's Tintern  Abbey,  the  passages  beginning,  "  The  still  sad 
music  of  humanity  " ;  "  And  I  have  felt  a  presence,"  ''  His 
little  nameless  unremembered  acts  " ;  in  Keats 's  Ode  to  a  Night- 
ingale,  the  stanza  beginning,  "  Thou  wast  not  born  for  death  "  ; 
in  his  Grecian  Urn,  the  stanza  beginning,  ''  Heard  melodies  are 
sweet,"  and  the  lines  opening,  "  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty  "  ; 
in  Shelley's  To  a  Skylark,  "  We  look  before  and  after  " ;  in 
Tennyson's  Break,  Break,  Break,  "  But  O  for  the  touch  " ;  in 
his  In  Memoriam,  ''  Our  little  systems  have  their  day  " ;  —  in 
Coleridge,  "  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best." 

Examples  might  be  multiplied.  If  the  student  should  make  a 
voyage  of  discovery  through  the  later  poems  in  this  volume  he 
will  apprehend  at  least  one  of  the  reasons  for  the  inclusion  of 
some  of  them. 

35.  The  Worth  of  the  Poem  as  a  Whole.  —  The  value  of  a 
poem  cannot  be  determined  solely  by  the  presence  of  supremely 
poetic  passages.  The  value  depends  upon  the  wnrtji  nf-tlrua^im- 
aginative  view  of  life  presented  by  the  poem  as  a  whole .     There 


are  two  methods  by  which  the  poet  may  pcsent  his  view: 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  POETRY  bdx 

(i)  by  interpreting  life  in  terms  of  his  own  experience;  (2)  by 
creating  an  image  of  it  and  letting  us  draw  our  own  conclusions 
concerning  the  meaning  from  the  objects,  events,  and  characters 
that  he  sets  before  us. 

I.  Interpretative  Poetry.  If  the  writer  contents  himself  with 
presenting  his  personal  emotion,  his  mood  in  a  particular  crisis, 
and  the  aspects  of  nature  or  human  life  that  appealed  to  that 
personal  mood,  his  poem,  no  matter  how  imaginative  and  beauti- 
ful, will  not  furnish  a  wise  and  impartial  interpretation  of  life. 
He  is  thinking  too  much  about  himself  or  about  the  characters 
through  whom  he  has  expressed  his  intense  but  fleeting  passion. 
Shelley's  Lines  to  an  Indian  Air,  —  opening, 


and  closing, 


I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale !  — 


is  a  lyric  of  the  personally  emotional  kind.  It  is  rapturous  and 
imaginatively  beautiful,  but  it  is  not  a  profound  interpreta- 
tion of  what  life  means.     Many  lyricpoems  are  of  this  nature. 

If,  however,  the  poet  presents  in  a  more  impersonal  way  his 
emotions  or  those  of  characters  whom  he  has  imagined,  —  if^ 
he  reflects  upon  the  crisis  and  the  emotions  that  it  has  awakened  j 
and  shows  that  they  are  of  vital  interest  to  mankind,  —  his  j 
poem  is  an  interpretation  of  life,     (i)  It  has  universal  and  ideal  ■ 
worth.     (2)  It  has  the  distinctive  mark  of  poetic  truth.     Shel- 
ley's  Adonais,   Milton's   Lycidas,  Tennyson's   In  Memoriam, 
Wordsworth's  Tintern  Abbey  and  his  Ode  on  Immortality  are 
poems  of  this  nature.     Self  has  passed  out  of  sight  and  life  has 
found  a  spiritual  interpreter,  a  Seer. 

2.  Creative  Poetry.  If  the  poet  presents  a  view  of  life  by 
means  of  persons  whom  he  has  imagined  —  living  out  their  own 
lives  and  speaking  for  themselves  —  his  method,  if  properly 
handled,  is  creative.  But  not  all  narrative  poems  and  dramas 
are  genuinely  creative.  If  the  representation  of  nature  and 
human  life  should  be  a  mere  "  working  over  "  of  actual  experi- 


Ixx  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

ence  or  of  history  it  would  have  no  imaginative  worth.  If  it 
should  readjust  and  reshape  life  so  as  to  produce  individuals 
and  events  that  stir  the  imagination  and  emotion,  but  lack 
probability,  the  representation  would  have  no  moral  or  ideal 
worth.  If  it  should  fill  up  a  plot  with  imagined  characters  that 
are  mere  stock-in-trade  types  built  to  suit  some  outworn  stage 
convention,  —  such  as  the  type  of  the  ranting,  roaring  Irishman 
or  the  traditional  money-lender  or  the  heavy  villain,  —  or  if  it 
should  cater  to  some  passing  fashion  or  taste  of  the  day,  the 
representation  would  have  no  novel  or  original  worth.  All 
such  representations  are  borrowed  or,  at  the  best,  reconstructive  ; 
they  have  no  creative  value.  ^ 

The  poet  whose  representation  of  life  furnishes  a  vision  of  its 
worth  does  not  merely  reproduce,  or  falsely  or  uselessly  recon- 
struct, (i)  Like  Chaucer,  he  shows  us  not  all  that  the  actual 
object  or  character  or  event  was,  but  what  it  is  to  him,  or  might 
be.  (2)  He  gives  us  by  a  few  master-strokes  the  impression 
which  nature  made  upon  him.  (3)  He  combines  characteristic 
particulars  so  as  to  reproduce  no  one  definite  original  but  to 
create  an  image  of  the  ideas  or  qualities  that  h^vishes  to  portray. 
If  the  student  reads  Browning's  Andrea  del  Sarto,  he  will  see 
that  Andrea's  Madonnas  failed  of  perfection  because  he  painted 
them  directly  from  his  model  —  his  wife  —  without  idealizing 
her.  Shakespeare  does  not  derive  his  Brutus  wholly  from  the 
historical  personage  of  that  name,  but  from  that  personage  and 
others  who  possessed,  or  might  have  possessed,  similar  spirit 
or  qualities.  Shakespeare  selects,  reorders,  combines,  —  creates 
that  which  is  more  than  a  duplicate  of  nature :  a  living  thing. 
The  Creative  Poet  imagines  events  and  characters  that  are  true 
to  life,  and  worth  while  in  themselves.  By  means  of  such  char- 
acters the  creative  poet  presents  a  view  of  life  that  is  probable 
and  convincing. 

3.  Poetvy  :  Interpretative  and  Creative.  It  is  evident,  then, 
(i)  that  the  interpretative  poem  has  higher  worth  as  a  whole 
than  the  poem  of  personal  emotion ;  and  (2)  that  the  creative 
poem  has  higher  worth  than  the  poem  that  merely  reconstructs 
the  materials  of  nature  and  human  life.  (3)  When  the  poet 
is  at  his  best  he  at  one  and  the  same  time  interprets  the  signif- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  POETRY  Ixxi 

icance  of  life  in  its  broad,  enduring,  and  spiritual  aspect,  and 
creates  characters  that  live  the  life.  He  is  Interpreter,  or  Seer, 
and  also  Maker.  He  sends  forth  his  characters  as  realities  to 
move  up  and  down  among  us.  They  show  us  what  life  means 
in  the  light  of  the  universal  and  the  ideal. 

36.  The  Degree  of  Acceptance.  —  To  satisfy  the  tests  already 
mentioned,  a  poem  must  have  truth  to  life,  worth  for  life,  crea- 
tiye  beaiuty^and  power  to  a^waken  the  nobler  emptions.  (i)  A 
poem  is  successful  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  it  pos- 
sesses each  and  all  of  these  qualities.  (2)  The  power  to  stir  the 
nobler  emotions  is  the  quality  that  brings  a  poem  to  the  hearts 
of  mankind.  (3)  A  poem  cannot  have  that  quality  unless 
it  have  also  poetic  truth,  worth,  and  beauty.  (4)  If,  with  these 
other  qualities,  it  have  poetic  power  in  high  degree  and  of  wide 
appeal,  not  for  one  coterie  or  crowd  alone,  nor  for  its  own  coun- 
try alone,  but  for  all  who  speak  the  tongue  in  which  it  is  written, 
it  is  a  great  poem.  (5)  If  it  have  this  appeal  for  men  of  many 
climes  and  many  tongues  it  may  be  regarded  as  a  classjc^by  its 
author's  own  generation.  But  (6)  a  Classic  is  a  poem  whose 
position  is  above  dispute,  and  its  position  cannot  be  above  dis- 
pute until  it  has  stood  the  test  of  time.  No  poem  can  be  safely 
called  a  classic  in  its  own  generation,  for  as  the  generations  pass 
"  the  old  order  change th  yielding  place  to  new."  With  the 
changing  view  of  life  literary  tastes  and  fashions  change.  (7)  The 
Classic  is  not  the  interpreter  of  one  good  custom  or  the  favorite 
of  one  age ;  it  is  a  poem  that  has  held  the  homage  of  mankind 
through  generations  of  thought  and  taste  dissimilar  to,  or  op- 
posed to,  its  own,  —  through  at  least  one  such  generation.  A 
classic  has  a  meaning  both  real  and  exalted,  a  creative  beauty, 
a  power  to  move  men  that  is  universal,  a  place  that  endures.  — 
The  dramas  of  ^^schylus  and  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare,  the 
epics  of  Homer  and  Vergil,  Dante  and  Milton,  the  comedies  of 
Moliere,  are  classics.  So  also,  we  may  safely  assert,  are  the 
poems  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  of  Byron,  Shelley,  and 
Keats,  of  Tennyson  and  Browning,  and  of  others,  dead  but  a 
generation  or  two  or  three,  who  are  represented  in  this  volume. 

Charles  Mills  Gayley. 


J 


ENGLISH    POETRY 

PROGRESS    AND    MASTERPIECES 

CHAPTER  I 

HISTORICAL  BASIS 

THE  ORIGINS  OF  THE  LANGUAGE 

Before  we  enter  upon  the  study  of  modern  English  poetry  it  will  be 
wise  to  consider  briefly  the  language  in  which  that  poetry  is  written. 
As  we  shall  see,  it  is  a  language  composed  of  elements  which  have  been 
added  one  after  another,  as  one  race  after  another  has  conquered 
upon  British  soil.  We  shall  attempt  merely  to  enumerate  these 
conquests,  leaving  the  student  to  fill  in  the  story  from  his  study  of 
English  history  or  the  history  of  English  Hterature. 

1.  The  Celts  and  the  Romans.  —  In  the  early  westward  migration 
of  the  races,  the  Celts  made  their  way  as  far  as  the  British  Isles,  and 
several  centuries  before  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era  had  ob- 
tained entire  possession  of  the  country.  In  54  and  55  B.C.  the 
Romans  under  Julius  Caesar  made  two  unavailing  expeditions  into 
Britain.  A  century  later,  in  their  career  of  Western  conquest,  they 
gained  a  military  supremacy  over  the  Celts,  at  least  in  the  southern 
and  more  accessible  portions  of  the  island,  and  to  some  extent  civilized 
the  original  inhabitants.  But  direct  traces  of  early  Celt  and  early 
Roman  do  not  abound  in  our  language,  though  the  Celtic  element,  as 
we  shall  find,  has  had  no  slight  influence  in  providing  theme  and  spirit 
for  English  poetry. 

2.  The  Teutons  (Anglo-Saxons). — ^^When  the  Roman  troops 
were  called  home,  about  400  a.d.,  to  defend  the  imperial  city  from  the 
attacks  of  Teutonic  invaders,  the  Celtic  tribes  in  the  north  and  west 
of  Britain,  taking  advantage  of  the  defenceless  condition  of  the  weaker 
Celts  of  the  south,  swooped  down  upon  them  and  threatened  to  over- 
run the  coimtry.    In  their  extremity  the  southern  Celts  called  to  their 

B  I 


2  HISTORICAL  BASIS 

aid  the.Tputp.nic  tribes  dwelling  upon  the  easterly  shore  of  the  North 
Sea,  ?oiith.:and"sputliw.est  of  Denmark.  But  these  new  allies,  having 
performed  the  task  assigned  to  them,  went  on  to  take  the  country 
for  themselves ;  after  nearly  four  centuries  of  conquest  they  gained 
complete  ascendency,  killing  many  of  the  original  inhabitants  of  the 
island  and  pushing  others  into  Cornwall,  Wales,  and  Scotland.  Dur- 
ing the  earlier  portion  of  this  struggle,  probably  in  the  sixth  century 
A.D.,  lived  the  original  of  the  legendary  Celtic  king,  Arthur,  —  a 
British  hero  destined  to  play  no  small  part  in  future  English  poetry. 
The  principal  tribes  of  the  Teutonic  invaders  were  the  Angles  and  the 
Saxons,  from  the  former  of  whom  are  derived  the  present  names  of  the 
country  and  of  the  language.  This  language,  in  its  earlier  form,  was 
developed  by  the  West  Saxons,  the  finally  dominant  tribe,  and  in  that 
earHer  form  is  now  denominated  "  Anglo-Saxon."  It  was  the  lan- 
guage of  nearly  all  England  for  six  hundred  years,  from  the  beginning 
of  the  fifth  through  the  end  of  the  tenth  century.  In  the  early  part  of 
this  period  the  Anglo-Saxons  were  christianized,  an  event  which  not 
only  added  several  hundred  Latin  words  to  the  language,  but  also 
largely  influenced  Anglo-Saxon  poetry.  The  famous  Anglo-Saxon 
epic  of  Beowulf,  a  story  of  heroes  and  dragons,  was  composed  while 
our  ancestors  were  yet  pagans.  Their  first  great  Christian  poem 
was  a  paraphrase  of  bibhcal  history,  composed  by  Caedmon  in  the 
second  half  of  the  seventh  century. 

3.  The  Northmen.  —  During  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries  certain 
Danish  tribes  —  the  Northmen,  or  Norsemen  —  gradually  gained  a 
foothold  in  England ;  and  in  the  early  part  of  the  eleventh  century 
they  attained  such  strength  that  there  was  a  short  period  of  Danish 
rule.  The  consequent  mingling  of  the  Scandinavian  tongue  with 
the  Anglo-Saxon  no  doubt  modified  the  latter  to  a  considerable  ex- 
tent, particularly  as  regards  the  spoken  language.  The  fact,  however, 
that  both  races  were  Teutonic  makes  it  difficult  to  determihe  how 
great  this  influence  reaUy  was.  But  a  very  important  Norse  influence 
was  soon  to  enter  by  another  channel.  Upon  the  people  of  Gaul 
(France),  originally  Celtic,  the  Romans  had  imposed  not  only  mili- 
tary rule,  but  also  the  fashion  of  the  Latin  tongue.  This  Latin  speech 
continued  to  be  the  basic  language  of  the  French,  though  modified 
(i)  by  traces  of  the  original  Celtic  tongue ;  (2)  by  the  language  of 
the  Franks,  —  a  Teutonic  people  who  overran  France  and  gave  their 
name  to  the  country  about  the  time  that  the  Anglo-Saxons  were 
overnmning  England;  and  (3)  by  the  Northmen  of  whom  we  have 
spoken  above.    The  onslaught  of  these  last  invaders  was  so  success- 


TEE  ORIGINS  OF   THE  LANGUAGE  3 

ful  that  about  900  a.d.  the  French  ceded  to  them  a  large  tract  of 
country  in  Northern  France,  which  they  called  Normandy.  They 
soon  adopted  the  religion  and  the  language  of  the  Franks.  The 
latter,  however,  was  modified  by  contact  with  the  native  speech  of 
the  Northern  conquerors. 

4.  The  Norman  French.  —  These  Norman  French,  as  the  people 
of  Normandy  were  called,  having  invaded  England  in  1066  a.d., 
succeeded  in  overthrowing  the  Anglo-Saxons  at  the  momentous  battle 
of  Hastings,  and  in  establishing  dominion  over  the  country.  For 
nearly  three  centuries  after  this  time  there  is  displayed  the  singular 
spectacle  of  two  great  languages  existing  side  by  side  in  the  same  small 
island,  neither  of  them  very  materially  affected  by  the  other.  To 
the  Anglo-Saxon,  or  English,  the  great  body  of  the  common  people 
stubbornly  held.  The  Norman  French,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the 
language  of  the  court,  the  nobility,  the  schools,  the  churches,  and, 
to  a  large  extent,  of  literature.^  During  the  first  hundred  and  fifty 
years  after  the  conquest,  English  almost  ceased  to  exist  as  a  written 
language,  since  most  of  the  poetry  and  much  of  the  prose  was  the  work 
of  the  Normans.  By  slow  degrees,  however,  the  Normans  severed 
their  connection  with  their  original  home  on  the  continent  and  coa- 
lesced with  the  Saxon  element  of  the  island.  By  the  end  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  there  were  consequently  evolved,  in  various  parts  of 
Britain,  various  Anglo-Norman  dialects,  from  which  our  present 
language  was  destined  to  spring.  Though  we  cannot  discuss  the 
matter  here  at  any  length,  we  may  briefly  say  that  in  the  composite 
language  thus  formed  the  grammar  and  the  more  familiar  words  are 
Anglo-Saxon,  but  the  less  common  words  are  Norman  French,  — 
that  is,  the  Latin  of  Gaul  as  modified  successively  by  Teutonic  in- 
fluences, first  Frankish  and  then  Norse.^ 

Summary  —  This  brings  the  story  down  to  the  beginning  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  the  century  which  witnessed  the  first  flowering  of 
our  modern  literature.    We  have  seen  that  the  language  in  which 

1  Of  course,  no  smaU  proportion  of  the  theological,  scientific,  and  romantic  writing 
of  the  time  was  in  Latin ;  and  this  undoubtedly  affected  the  spirit  of  our  literature. 
But  we  are  referring  above  especially  to  the  development  of  the  language;  and 
upon  this  the  influence  of  Latin  has  always  been  indirect  rather  than  direct. 

2  This  discussion  has  sketched  the  growth  of  our  language  only  to  the  end  of  the 
thirteenth  centiiry.  Since  that  time  the  language  has  been  greatly  enlarged,  but  this 
enlargement  is  due,  not  to  immigrations  and  conquests  on  the  part  of  alien  races, 
but  to  the  new  words  brought  in  from  other  tongues  by  travel,  by  commercial  and 
social  intercourse  with  other  lands,  by  inventions  and  discoveries,  by  new  subjects 
and  forms  of  thought,  —  in  short,  by  the  general  growth  and  development  of  the 
people. 


4  HISTORICAL  BASIS 

this  Kterature  finds  expression  is  a  compound  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  or 
Teutonic  element,  and  a  Norman  French  or  Latin  element.  Though 
the  language  has  derived  about  the  same  number  of  words  from  each 
of  these  sources,  we  can  readily  understand  why  the  Anglo-Saxon 
forms  much  the  larger  portion  of  any  author's  vocabulary;  for  its 
words  denote  the  commoner  objects  of  experience  and  relations  of 
thought.  We  have  also  seen  how  it  came  about  that  the  Celts,  the 
original  occupants  of  Britain,  now  have  their  abode  in  the  mountains 
of  Wales  and  Scotland,  in  the  peninsula  of  Cornwall,  and  in  Ireland 
and  the  smaller  adjoining  islands,  where,  though  they  have  had  but 
little  influence  upon  our  language  as  a  language,  they  have  done 
much  toward  influencing  the  literature  which  it  is  a  mission  of  that 
language  to  express.  Finally,  we  have  seen  that  the  English  nation, 
like  the  English  language,  is  a  composite,  and  can  understand  that 
the  commingling  of  races  in  the  "  long  period  before  the  outburst  of 
literature  in  the  fourteenth  century,  was  an  important  element  in  the 
unconscious  preparation  for  the  later  time."  The  admixture  of  racial 
characteristics  in  this  period  of  growth  has  contributed  much  to  the 
determination  of  qualities  peculiar  to  all  subsequent  English  poetry. 

Notes  for  Further  Study.  —  For  the  Beowulf,  see  translations  by 
F.  B.  Gummere  (The  Oldest  English  Epic.  Macmillan),  J.  L.  Hall 
(Heath  &  Co.),  C.  G.  Child  (Riverside  Lit.  Series) ;  for  the  study  of 
Caedmon  see  Bede's  Ecclesiastical  History,  Book  IV,  chap.  24  (Tem- 
ple Classics  or  Bohn's  Antiquarian  Library)..  Selections  from  the 
Beowulf  and  other  Anglo-Saxon  poems  are  contained  in  Cook  and 
Tinker's  very  convenient  Translations  from  Old  English  Poetry  (Ginn 
&  Co.)  and  the  chapter  in  Bede  may  be  foimd  in  the  same  authors' 
companion  volume  on  Old  English  Prose  (Ginn  &  Co.). 

The  following  verses  by  Caedmon,  translated  by  Professor  Cook, 
are  "  probably  the  first  piece  of  extant  English  literature  composed 
on  English  soil,  or  at  least  they  are  the  first  that  can  be  approximately 
dated": 

Now  must  we  hymn  the  Master  of  heaven, 

The  might  of  the  Maker,  the  deeds  of  the  Father, 

The  thought  of  His  heart.     He,  Lord  everlasting, 

Established  of  old  the  source  of  all  wonders : 

Creator  all-holy,  He  hung  the  bright  heaven, 

A  roof  high  upreared,  o'er  the  children  of  men ; 

The  King  of  mankind  then  created  for  mortals 

The  world  in  its  beauty,  the  earth  spread  beneath  them, 

He,  Lord  everlasting,  omnipotent  God. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  FOURTEENTH   CENTURY 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  LANGUAGE  AND 
THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  LITERATURE 

The  fourteenth  century  has  been  fitly  called  the  most  important 
epoch  in  the  intellectual  history  of  Europe.  It  was  the  century  in 
which  decaying  feudalism  began  to  give  way  under  the  pressure  of  a 
new  social  order.  It  was  the  century  of  the  distinctively  modern 
Italian  writers,  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  the, most  notable  representa- 
tives of  a  literature  which  has  in  manifold  ways  stimulated  the  mind 
of  England  to  a  corresponding  literary  activity.  It  was  during  this 
century  that  Enghsh  poets  ceased  to  be  mere  copyists  of  a  foreign 
school,  and  that  a  new  and  original  native  poetry  arose.  It  was  during 
this  century,  also,  that  out  of  the  Babel  of  conflicting  dialects  the 
present  English  language  won  its  way. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  our  language  was  at  a 
critical  stage  of  its  development.  It  was  at  least  certain  that  the 
basis  of  the  language  would  be  Teutonic  rather  than  Latin.  Little 
by  little  the  Norman  French  had  been  banished  from  the  schools, 
from  the  churches,  from  the  law  courts,  from  society;  but  as  yet 
no  national  English  language  had  come  forward  to  take  its  place. 
Different  dialects  were  spoken  in  different  portions  of  the  country  — 
the  Southern,  the  Midland,  and  the  Northern  English,  the  last  of 
which  was  the  parent  of  the  modern  Lowland  Scotch,  the  tongue  of 
Ayrshire  and  of  Burns.  In  course  of  time,  however,  the  English 
spoken  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  Midland  district,  —  the  language  of 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  of  London  and  the  Court,  —  drew  to  the  front 
and  attained  a  supremacy  which  it  has  never  lost.  One  of  the  most 
potent  agencies  in  fixing  this  dialect  as  the  English  of  to-day  was  the 
use  made  of  it  in  fourteenth-century  literature,  —  by  John  Wycliff  in 
his  translation  of  the  Bible,  and  by  him  whom  many  delight  to  honor 
as  "  the  father  of  EngHsh  poetry,"  geoffkey  chaucer. 

Contemporaneous  with  Chaucer  were  two  other  fourteenth-cen- 
tury poets,  who  deserve  at  least  to  be  mentioned,  william 
LANGLAND  (1332-1400)  was    more    than  an  ordinary  poet,   though 

5 


6  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 

he  belongs,  in  both  the  thought  and  form  of  his  poetry,  to  the  age 
which  was  passing,  rather  than  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  Far 
greater  in  his  influence  upon  succeeding  poetry  was  john  gower 
(i33o?-i4o8),  a  scholarly,  if  somewhat  prosaic,  individual,  who, 
writing  in  the  same  dialect  and  dealing  with  the  same  themes  as  his 
distinguished  friend  Chaucer,  served  with  him  as  a  "  fellow  school- 
master in  bringing  England  to  literature."  But  however  interesting 
from  an  historical  point  of  view,  neither  Langland  nor  Gower  can  for 
a  moment  be  compared  with  Chaucer  himself,  who  stands  out  easily 
as  the  first  true  artist  in  English  poetry. 

GEOFFREY   CHAUCER   (i34o?-i4oo) 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  Chaucer,  by  two  centuries  the  earliest 
of  our  greater  English  poets,  is,  at  the  same  time,  one  of  the  greatest 
of  all  EngHsh  poets :  for  critics  unite  in  giving  him  a  place  among  the 
five  or  six  princes  of  our  literature.  His  skill  in  the  use  of  language, 
his  sympathy  with  nature,  his  genial  humor  and  keen  insight,  his  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  men  and  things,  his  genius  in  the  delineation  of 
character,  his  delightful  freshness  and  originality  of  view,  —  these  par- 
ticular qualities  have  perhaps  never  since  been  so  happily  joined  in 
any  one  English  poet  except  Shakespeare  himself.  Yet,  interesting  as 
we  feel  the  man  to  be,  and  unremittingly  as  students  have  endeavored 
to  recover  the  facts  of  his  life,  it  must  be  confessed  that  our  absolute 
information  regarding  him  is  unhappily  limited. 

1340  ?-i372.  —  Chaucer  was  born  about  1340,  in  London,  his  father 
being  a  vintner,,  or  wine  seller,  in  fairly  easy  circumstances.  We  know 
nothing  of  the  boy's  early  education,  or,  indeed,  anything  at  all  about 
him,  until  1357,  when  we  find  him  acting  as  a  page  in  the  household  of 
the  Duke  of  Clarence,  third  son  of  Edward  III.  He  took  part,  as  one 
of  the  duke's  retinue,  in  a  military  expedition  into  France,  where,  in 
1360,  he  was  for  a  short  time  prisoner.  For  several  years  after  this 
date  all  trace  of  him  is  again  lost ;  but  in  1367  we  find  him  installed  as 
a  valet  of  the  King's  Chamber,  an  office  which  he  had  doubtless  been 
holding  for  some  time  and  which  he  continued  to  hold  till  1372.  Dur- 
ing this  period  he  commenced  to  write  verse,  and  produced  the  Com- 
pleynte  unto  Pitie  and  the  Boke  of  the  Duchesse,  both  of  which  appeared 
before  1370,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  most  critics,  show  traces  of  French 
influence.  About  this  time  his  marriage  took  place ;  just  when  is  un- 
certain, but,  at  any  rate,  sometime  between  1366  and  1374.  We  also 
know  that  he  had  at  least  one  child. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  7 

1372-1386.  —  In  1372,  when  thirty-two  years  of  age,  Chaucer  was 
sent  on  a  diplomatic  mission  to  Italy;  there  he  became  acquainted 
with  the  writings  of  Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Boccaccio.  This  journey 
and  its  results  are  of  vital  importance,  both  to  Chaucer  and  to  English 
poetry.  It  was  at  this  point  that  our  literature  was  first  affected  by 
the  dominant  influence  of  Italy ;  and  it  was  by  this  same  influence 
that  the  growing  powers  of  our  first  real  poet  were  strengthened  and 
directed.  During  this  period  many  of  his  best  poems  were  written, 
—  among  others,  the  Hous  of  Fame,  the  Legende  of  Good  Women,  and 
the  Trailus  and  Criseyde.  During  this  period,  also,  the  poet  was  very 
active  in  the  affairs  of  the  world.  We  hear  of  him  as,  successively, 
Comptroller  of  Customs,  Ambassador  on  various  foreign  missions, 
and,  finally,  Member  of  Parliament  for  Kent.  Few  makers  of  Eng- 
lish literature  have  been  so  prominent  in  public  activities. 

1386-1400.  —  Near  the  close  of  1386,  a  change  in  political  fortunes 
brought  to  Chaucer  the  loss  of  his  offices  and  reduced  him  suddenly 
from  affluence  to  comparative  poverty.  In  this  period  of  enforced 
leisure  the  plan  of  The  Canterbury  Tales  seems  to  have  shaped  itself 
in  his  mind ;  and  between  1387  and  1390  were  probably  written  not 
only  the  Prologue,  but  also  the  best  and  largest  portion  of  the  Tales. 
The  last  ten  years  of  Chaucer's  life  were  the  least  productive  of  hterary 
result.  The  Tales,  which  he  had  planned  on  a  splendid  scale,  were 
not  yet  one-fifth  completed;  yet  he  added  only  three  between  1390 
and  1400.  Sometimes  he  was  in  comfortable  circumstances;  more 
often  in  want  and  dependent  upon  the  bounty  of  the  king.  In  the 
latter  part  of  1400  the  kindly  poet  and  noble-hearted  gentleman  died. 
He  was  the  first  of  English  poets  to  be  honored  by  burial  in  West- 
minster Abbey. 

Though  most  of  Chaucer's  effort  was  directed  to  the  telling  of  stories, 
a  task  in  which  he  succeeded  so  weU  that  Stopford  Brooke  pro- 
nounces him  "  our  greatest  story-teller  in  verse,"  stiU  most  readers  of 
to-day  would  undoubtedly  prefer  to  even  the  best  of  his  stories,  that 
wonderful  gaUery  of  fourteenth-century  portraits  known  as  the  Pro- 
logue to  the  Canterbury  Tales.  Of  this  one  critic  has  gone  so  far  as 
to  say,  "  There  is  no  writing  like  that  of  the  Prologue  in  all  English 
literature,  save  in  Shakespeare."  And,  indeed,  in  its  freshness  and 
beauty  and  the  vivid  colors  of  its  "  lively  portraiture,"  it  takes  rank 
with  the  very  best  of  its  kind.  Aside  from  the  Prologue  the  student 
will  probably  find  the  Knightes  Tale  and  the  Nonne  Preestes  Tale 
of  greatest  interest. 


THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


Here  biginneth  the  Book  of  the  Tales  of  Caunterbiuy 

N.B.  —  In  Chaucer  there  are  as  many  syllables  as  there  are  vowels  or  diphthongs, 
except  when  the  vowel  or  diphthong  is  elided  or  suppressed.  These  elisions  or  sup- 
pressions, which  happen  very  frequently  in  the  case  of  e  and  occasionally  of  other 
vowels,  are  marked  in  this  text  by  italics. 

The  influences  of  the  breezy  April 

Whan  that  ApriUe  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  rote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  Hcour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth  5 

Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 
And  smale  f  owles  maken  melody e, 

That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye,  lo 

(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages) : 
Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages 
(And  palmers  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes) 
To  feme  halwes,  couthe  in  sondry  londes ; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende  15 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende. 
The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke 

The  arrangement  for  a  pilgrimage  to  he  made  in  company 

Bifel  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay  20 

8 


\ 


THE  PROLOGUE  9 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 

To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 

At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 

Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  companye, 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  a  venture  y-falle  25 

In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde ; 

The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 

And  wel  we  weren  esed  att€  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,  30 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everichon, 

That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 

And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse. 

To  take  our  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

An  introduction  to  the  character  sketches  that  follow 

But  natheles,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and  space,  3$ 

Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace. 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me. 

And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree ;  40 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne : 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  biginne. 

The  Knight 

A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  ryden  out,  he  loved  chivalrye,  4S 

Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  ther-to  hadde  he  riden  (no  man  ferre) 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse.  50 

At  Alisaundre  he  was,  whan  it  was  wonne ; 
Ful  of  te  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne 
Aboven  alle  naciouns  in  Pruce. 


lO  CHAUCER 

In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed  and  in  Ruce, 

No  Cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.  55 

In  Gernade  at  the  sege  eek  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Belmarye. 

At  Lyeys  was  he,  and  at  Satalye, 

Whan  they  were  wonne ;  and  in  the  Grete  See 

At  many  a  noble  aryve  hadde  he  be.  60 

At  mortal  batailks  hadde  he  been  fif  tene, 

And  foghten  for  our  feith  at  Tramissene 

In  listes  thryes,  and  ay  slayn  his  fo. 

This  ilke  worthy  knight  had  been  also 

Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye,  65 

Ageyn  another  hethen  in  Turkye : 

And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys. 

And  thogh  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys, 

And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 

He  never  yet  no  vileinye  ne  sayde  70 

In  al  his  lyf,  un-to  no  maner  wight. 

He  was  a  verray  parfit  gentil  knight. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array. 

His  hors  were  gode,  but  he  ne  was  nat  gay. 

Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipoun  75 

Al  bismotered  with  his  habergeoun ; 

For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage, 

And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimage. 

The  Squyer 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  Squyer, 
A  lovyere,  and  a  lusty  bacheler,  80 

With  lokkes  crulle,  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  greet  of  strengthe. 
And  he  had- been  somtyme  in  chivachye,  85 

In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys,  and  Picardye, 
And  born  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 


THE  PROLOGUE  II 

Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 

Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  whyte  and  rede.  go 

Singings  he  was,  or  floytinge,  al  the  day ; 

He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 

Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  longe  and  wyde. 

Wei  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 

He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endyte,  95 

Juste  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye  and  wryte. 

So  hote  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale 

He  sleep  na-more  than  dooth  a  nightingale. 

Curteys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable. 

And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.  100 

The  Yeman 

A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servaunts  na-mo 
At  that  tyme,  for  him  liste  ryde  so ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene ; 
A  sheef  of  pecok-arwes  bright  e  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily,  105 

(Wel  coude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly : 
His  arwes  drouped  noght  with  fetheres  lowe), 
And  in  his  hand  he  bar  a  mighty  bowe. 
A  not-heed  hadde  he,  with  a  broun  visage. 
Of  wode-craft  wel  coude  he  al  the  usage.  no 

Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracer, 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler, 
And  on  that  other  syde  a  gay  daggere 
Harneised  wel,  and  sharp  as  point  of  spere ; 
A  Cristofre  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene.  115 

An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdrik  was  of  grene ; 
A  forster  was  he,  soothly,  as  I  gesse. 

The  Prioresse 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  ful  symple  and  coy ; 
Hir  gretteste  00th  was  but  by  seynt  Loy ;  120 

And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 


12  CHAUCER 

Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely ; 
And  Frensh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly, 
After  the  scok  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe,  125 

For  Frensh  of  Paris  was  to  hir  unknowe. 
At  niete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle ; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fingres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe  130 

That  no  drope  ne  fille  up-on  hir  brest. 
In  curteisyg  was  set  ful  moche  hir  lest. 
Hir  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hir  coppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte.  135 

Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte, 
And  sLkerly  she  was  of  greet  desport, 
And  ful  plesaunt,  and  amiable  of  port, 
And  peyned  hir  to  countrefete  chere 
Of  court,  and  been  estatlich  of  manere,  140 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 
But,  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 
»  She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous. 

She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde.  14s 

Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 

With  rosted  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel-breed 

But  sore  wepte  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 

Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte : 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.       '  150 

Ful  semely  hir  wimple  pinched  was ; 

Hir  nose  tretys ;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas ; 

Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  ther-to  softe  and  reed ; 

But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed ; 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe ;  iss 

For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetis  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes,  gauded  al  with  grene ; 


THE  PROLOGUE  13 

And  ther-on  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene,  160 

On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

The  Nonne  and  the  three  Preestes 

Another  Nonne  with  hir  hadde  she, 
That  was  hir  chapeleyne,  and  Preestes  three 

The  Monk 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrye,  165 

An  out-rydere,  that  lovede  venerye ; 
A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  hors  hadde  he  in  stable : 
And,  whan  he  rood,  men  mighte  his  brydel  here 
Ginglen  in  a  whistling  wind  as  clere,  170 

And  eek  as  loude  as  dooth  the  chapel-belle, 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  celle. 
The  reuk  of  seint  Maure  or  of  seint  Beneit,  -. 

By-cause  that  it  was  old6  and  som-del  streit. 
This  ilke  monk  leet  olde  thinges  pace,  175 

And  heeld  after  the  newe  world  the  space. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen. 
That  seith  that  hunters  been  nat  holy  men ; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  recchelees, 
Is  lykned  til  a  fish  that  is  waterlees ;  180 

This  is  to  seyn,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre. 
But  thilke  text  held  he  nat  worth  an  oistre ; 
And  I  seyde,  his  opinioun  was  good. 
What  sholde  he  studie,  and  make  him-selven  wood, 
Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alwey  to  poure,  185 

Or  swinken  with  his  handes,  and  laboure, 
As  Austin  bit  ?     How  shal  the  world  be  served  ? 
Lat  Austin  have  his  swink  to  him  reserved. 
Therfore  he  was  a  pricasour  aright ; 
Grehoundes  he  hadde,  as  swifte  as  fowel  in  flight ;         190 
Of  priking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 


14  CHAUCER 

I  seigh  his  sieves  purfiled  at  the  hond 

With  grys,  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lond ; 

And,  for  to  iestne  his  hood  under  his  chin,  195 

He  hadde  of  gold  y-wroght  a  curious  pin : 

A  love-knotte  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 

His  heed  was  balled,  that  shoon  as  any  glas, 

And  eek  his  face,  as  he  had  been  anoint. 

He  was  a  lord  f ul  fat  and  in  good  point ;  200 

His  eyen  stepe,  and  rollinge  in  his  heed, 

That  stemed  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed ; 

His  botes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estat. 

Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelat ; 

He  was  nat  pale  as  a  for-pyned  goost.  205 

A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost. 

His  palfry  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 

The  Frere 
A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wantown  and  a  merye, 
A  limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man. 

In  alle  the  ordres  foure  is  noon  that  can  210 

So  moche  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage. 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen,  at  his  owene  cost. 
Un-to  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he  215 

With  frankeleyns  over-al  in  his  contree. 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun : 
For  he  had  power  of  confessioun. 
As  seyde  him-self ,  more  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat.  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun. 
And  pleasaunt  was  his  absolucioun ; 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  penaunce 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitaunce ; 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  yive  22s 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shrive. 
For  if  he  yaf ,  he  dorste  make  avaunt,  ^ 

He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt. 


THE  PROLOGUE  1$ 

For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 

He  may  nat  wepe  al-thogh  him  sore  smerte.  230 

Therforg,  in  stede  of  weping  and  preyeres, 

Men  moot  yeve  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 

His  tipet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  knyves 

And  pinnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wyves. 

And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  mery  note ;  235 

Wei  coude  he  singe  and  pleyen  on  a  rote. 

Of  yeddinges  he  bar  outrely  the  prys. 

His  nekke  whyt  was  as  the  flour-de-lys ; 

Ther-to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 

He  knew  the  taverngs  wel  in  every  toun,  240 

And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere 

Bet  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggestere ; 

For  un-to  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 

Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  facultee, 

To  have  with  seke  lazars  aqueyntaunce.  245 

It  is  nat  honest,  it  may  nat  avaunce 

For  to  delen  with  no  swich  poraille. 

But  al  with  riche  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  over-al,  ther  as  profit  sholde  aryse, 

Curteys  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servyse ;  250 

Ther  nas  no  man  no-wher  so  vertuous. 

He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous ; 

For  thogh  a  widwe  hadde  noght  a  sho, 

So  pleasaunt  was  his  "  In  principio,^^ 

Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthing,  er  he  wente.  255 

His  purchas  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rente. 

And  rage  he  coude,  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe. 

In  love-dayes  ther  coude  he  muchel  helpe ; 

For  there  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloisterer, 

With  a  thredbar  cope,  as  is  a  poure  scoler,  260 

But  lie  was  lyk  a  maister  or  a  pope. 

Of  double  worsted  was  his  semi-cope, 

That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 

Somwhat  he  lipsed,  for  his  wantownesse. 

To  make  his  English  swete  up-on  his  tonge ;  265 

And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  had  songe, 


l6  CHAUCER 

His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  heed  aright, 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

The  Marchant 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  herd,  270 

In  mottelee,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat, 
Up-on  his  heed  a  Flaundrish  bevere  hat ; 
His  botes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly. 
His  resons  he  spak  ful  solempnely,  ..^ 

Souninge  alway  thencrees  of  his  winning.  '      275 

He  wolde  the  see  were  kept  for  any  thing 
Bitwixe  Middelburgh  and  Orewelle. 
Wei  coude  he  in  eschaunge  sheeldes  selle. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette ; 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette,  280 

So  estatly  was  he  of  his  governaunce. 
With  his  bargaynes,  and  with  his  chevisaunce. 
For  so  the  he  was  a  worthy  man  with-alle, 
But  sooth  to  seyn,  I  noot  how  men  him  calle. 

The  Clerk  of  Oxenford 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also,  285 

That  un-to  logik  hadde  longe  y-go. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake ; 
But  loked  holwe,  and  ther-to  soberly. 
Ful  thredbar  was  his  overest  courtepy ;  290 

For  he  had  geten  him  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office. 
For  him  was  lever  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bokes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye,  295 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithel,  or  gay  sautrye. 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre ; 
But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  freendes  hente, 


THE  PROLOGUE  17 

On  bokes  and  on  lerninge  he  it  spente,  ^00 

And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 

Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wher-with  to  scoleye. 

Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most  hede. 

Noght  o  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nede, 

And  that  was  seyd  in  forme,  and  reverence,  305 

And  short  and  quik,  and  ful  of  hy  sentence. 

Souningg  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 

And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

The  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  parvys,  310 

Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence : 
He  semed  swich,  his  wordes  weren  so  wyse. 
Justyce  he  was  ful  often  in  assyse. 

By  patents,  and  by  pleyn  commissioun ;  31s 

For  his  science,  and  for  his  heigh  renoun, 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon. 
So  greet  a  purchasour  was  no-wher  noon. 
Al  was  fee  simple  to  him  in  effect, 

His  purchasing  mighte  nat  been  infect.  320 

No-wher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas, 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  domes  alle, 
That  from  the  tyme  of  king  William  were  falle. 
Ther- to  he  coude  endyte,  and  make  a  thing,  32s 

Ther  coude  no  wight  pinche  at  his  wryting ; 
And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote. 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote 
Girt  with  a  ceint  of  silk,  with  barres  smale ; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

The  Frankeleyn 

A  Frankeleyn  was  in  his  companye ; 
Whyt  was  his  berd,  as  is  the  dayes-ye. 
c 


l8  CHAUCER 

'     Of  his  complexioun  he  was  sangwj^n. 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sop  in  wyn. 
To  liven  in  delyt  was  ever  his  wone,  335 

For  he  was  Epicurus  owene  sone, 
That  heeld  opinioun,  that  pleyn  delyt 
Was  verraily  felicitee  parfyt. 
An  housholderg,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he ; 
Seint  Julian  he  was  in  his  contree.  340 

His  breed,  his  ak,  was  alwey  after  oon ; 
A  bettre  envyned  man  was  no-wher  noon. 
With-oute  bake  mete  was  never  his  hous, 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plentevous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke,  345 

Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  coude  thinke. 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer, 
So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  soper. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partnch  hadde  he  in  mewe, 
And  many  a  breem  and  many  a  luce  in  stewe.  350 

Wo  was  his  cook,  but-if  his  sauce  were 
Poynaunt  and  sharp,  and  redy  al  his  gere. 
His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 
Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 
At  sessiouns  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire ;  355 

Ful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knight  of  the  shire. 
An  anlas  and  a  gipser  al  of  silk 
Heng  at  his  girdel,  whyt  as  morne  milk. 
A  shirreve  hadde  he  been,  and  a  countour ; 
Was  no-wher  such  a  worthy  vavasour.  ...  360 

The  Cook 

A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the  nones,  379 

To  boille  the  chiknes  with  the  mary-bones 
And  poudre-marchant  tart  and  galingale. 
Wei  coude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  London  ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,  and  broille,  and  frye, 
Maken  mortreux,  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me,  385 

That  on  his  shine  a  mormal  hadde  he ; 
For  blankmanger,  that  made  he  with  the  beste. 


TEE  PROLOGUE  I9 

The  Shipman 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  woning  fer  by  weste : 
For  aught  I  woot,  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  up-on  a  rouncy,  as  he  couthe,  390 

in  a  goune  of  falding  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hanging  on  a  laas  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hote  somer  had  maad  his  hews  al  broun ; 
And,  certeinly,  he  was  a  good  felawe.  395 

Ful  many  a  draughts  of  wyn  had  he  y-drawe 
From  Burdeux-ward,  whyl  that  the  chapman  sleep. 
Of  nyce  conscience  took  he  no  keep. 
If  that  he  f aught,  and  hadde  the  hyer  hond, 
By  water  he  sente  hem  hoom  to  every  lond.  400 

But  of  his  craft  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes. 
His  stremes  and  his  daungers  him  bisydes. 
His  herberwe  and  his  mone,  his  lodemenage, 
Ther  nas  noon  swich  from  Hulle  to  Cartage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake ;  405 

With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  berd  ben  shake. 
He  knew  wel  alk  the  havenes,  as  they  were, 
From  Gootlond  to  the  cape  of  Finistere, 
And  every  cryke  in  Britayne  and  in  Spayne ; 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne.  ,  410 

The  Doctour  of  Phisyk 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisyk, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  him  lyk. 
To  speke  of  phisik  and  of  surgerye ; 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomye. 
He  kepte  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  del  415 

In  houres,  by  his  magik  naturel. 
Wel  coude  he  fortunen  the  ascendent 
Of  his  images  for  his  pacient. 
He  knew  the  cause  of  everich  maladye, 
Were  it  of  hoot  or  cold,  or  moiste,  or  drye,  420 


20  CHAUCER 

And  where  engendred,  and  of  what  humour ; 

He  was  a  verrey  parfit  practisour. 

The  cause  y  knowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote, 

Anon  he  yaf  the  seke  man  his  bote. 

Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries,  425 

To  sende  him  drogges  and  his  letuaries, 

For  ech  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne ; 

Hir  frendschipe  nas  nat  newe  to  biginne. 

Wei  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius, 

And  Deiscorides,  and  eek  Rufus,  430 

Old  Ypocras,  Haly,  and  Galien ; 

Serapion,  Razis,  and  Avicen ; 

Averrois,  Damascien,  and  Cons  tan  tyn ; 

Bernard,  and  Gatesden,  and  Gilbertyn. 

Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he,  435 

For  it  was  of  no  superfiuitee, 

But  of  greet  norissing  and  digestible. 

His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 

In  sangwin  and  in  pers  he  clad  was  al, 

Lyned  with  taff ata  and  with  sendal ;  440 

And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence ; 

He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence. 

For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial, 

Therfore  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

The  Wyf  of  Bathe 

A  good  Wyf  was  ther  of  bisyde  Bathe,  44s 

But  she  was  som-del  deef ,  and  that  was  scathe. 
Of  clooth-making  she  hadde  swiche  an  haunt, 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wyf  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  off  ring  bif  ore  hir  sholde  goon ;  450 

And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn,  so  wrooth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hir  coverchiefs  ful  fyne  were  of  ground ; 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound 
That  on  a  Sonday  were  upon  hir  heed.  45s 


THE  PROLOGUE  21 

Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 

Fill  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoos  ful  moiste  and  newe. 

Boold  was  hir  face,  and  fair,  and  reed  of  hewe. 

She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  lyve ; 

Housbondes  at  chirche-dore  she  hadde  fyve,  460 

Withouten  other  company^  in  youthe  ; 

(But  therof  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nouthe). 

And  thryes  hadde  she  been  at  Jerusalem ; 

She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  streem ; 

At  Rome  she  hadde  been,  and  at  Boloigne,  465 

In  Galice  at  seint  Jame,  and  at  Coloigne. 

She  coude  muche  of  wandring  by  the  weye. 

Gat-tothed  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 

Up-on  an  amblere  esily  she  sat, 

Y-wimpled  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat  470 

As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe ; 

A  foot-mantel  aboute  hir  hipes  large. 

And  on  hir  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 

In  felawschip  wel  coude  she  laughe  and  carpe 

Of  remedyes  of  love  she  knew  per-chaunce,  47s 

For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 


■'X 


The  Poure  Persoun 


A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  poure  Persoun  of  a  toun ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thoght  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche ; 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient ; 

And  swich  he  was  y-preved  of te  sythes.  485 

Ful  looth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tythes, 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Un-to  his  poure  parisshens  aboute 
Of  his  offring,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce.  490 


22  CHAUCER 

Wyd  was  his  parisshg,  and  houses  fer  a-sonder, 

But  he  ne  lafte  nat,  for  reyn  ne  thonder, 

In  siknes  nor  in  meschief ,  to  visyte 

The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lyte, 

Up-on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf.  495 

This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf , 

That  first  he  wroghte,  and  afterward  he  taughte ; 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte ; 

And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther-to, 

That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  iren  do  ?  500 

For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste, 

No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste ; 

And  shame  it  is,  if  a  preest  take  keep, 

A  [dirty]  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 

Wei  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive,  505 

By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheep  shold  live. 

He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre. 

And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  the  my  re, 

And  ran  to  London,  un-to  seynt  Poules, 

To  seken  him  a  chaunterye  for  soules,  510 

Or  with  a  bretherheed  to  been  withholde ; 

But  dwelte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde. 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  miscarie ; 

He  was  a  shepherde  and  no  mercenarie. 

And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous,  515 

He  was  to  sinful  man  nat  despitous, 

Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne. 

But  in  his  teching  discreet  and  benigne. 

To  drawen  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 

By  good  ensample,  was  his  bisinesse  :  520 

But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat, 

What-so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat. 

Him  wolde  he  snibben  sharply  for  the  nones. 

A  bettre  preest,  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  is. 

He  way  ted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence,  525 

Ne  maked  him  a  spyced  conscience, 

But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve. 

He  taughte,  and  first  he  folwed  it  him-selve. 


THE  PROLOGUE  23 

The  Plowman 

With  him  ther  was  a  Plowman,  was  his  brother, 
That  hadde  y-lad  of  dong  ful  many  a  f other,  530 

A  trewe  swinker  and  a  good  was  he, 
Livinge  in  pees  and  parfit  charitee. 
God  loved  he  best  with  al  his  hole  herte 
At  alle  tymes,  thogh  him  gamed  or  smerte. 
And  thanne  his  neighebour  right  as  him-selve.  53s 

He  wolde  thresshe,  and  ther-to  dyke  and  delve. 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  poure  wight, 
Withouten  hyre,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 
His  tythes  payed  he  ful  faire  and  wel, 
Bothe  of  his  propre  swink  and  his  catel.  540 

In  a  tabard  he  rood  upon  a  mere. 

The  Remaining  Characters 

Ther  was  also  a  Reve  and  a  Millere, 
A  Somnour  and  a  Pardoner  also, 
A  Maunciple,  and  my-self ;  ther  were  na-mo. 

The  Miller 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl,  for  the  nones,  545 

Ful  big  he  was  of  braun,  and  eek  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ther  he  cam. 
At  wrastling  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram. 
He  was  short-sholdred,  brood,  a  thikke  knarre, 
Ther  was  no  dore  that  he  nolde  heve  of  harre,  550 

Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed. 
His  herd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  reed. 
And  ther-to  brood,  as  thogh  it  were  a  spade. 
Up-on  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  werte,  and  ther-on  stood  a  tuft  of  heres,  sss 

Reed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres ; 
His  nose-thirles  blake  were  and  wyde. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde ; 
His  mouth  as  greet  was  as  a  greet  forneys. 
He  was  a  jangler  and  a  goliardeys,  560 


24  CHAUCER 

And  that  was  most  of  sinne  and  harlotryes. 
Wei  coude  he  stelen  corn,  and  tollen  thryes ; 
And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  gold,  pardee. 
A  whyt  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he. 
A  baggepypg  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sowne, 
And  ther-with-al  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne.  . 

The  Reve 

The  Reve  was  a  sclendre  colerik  man, 
His  berd  was  shave  as  ny  as  ever  he  can. 
His  heer  was  by  his  eres  round  y-shorn. 
His  top  was  dokked  lyk  a  preest  biforn. 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene, 
Y-lyk  a  staf ,  there  was  no  calf  y-sene. 
Wel  coude  he  kepe  a  gerner  and  a  binne ; 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  coude  on  him  winne. 
Wel  wiste  he,  by  the  droghte,  and  by  the  reyn, 
The  yelding  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  greyn. 
His  lordes  sheep,  his  neet,  his  dayerye. 
His  swyn,  his  hors,  his  stoor,  and  his  pultrye, 
Was  hooUy  in  this  reves  governing, 
And  by  his  covenaunt  yaf  the  rekening. 
Sin  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yeer  of  age ; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bringe  him  in  arrerage. 
There  nas  baillif ,  ne  herde,  ne  other  hyne, 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleighte  and  his  covyne ; 
They  were  adrad  of  him,  as  of  the  deeth. 
His  woning  was  ful  fair  up-on  an  heeth. 
With  grene  trees  shadwed  was  his  place. 
He  coude  bettre  than  his  lord  purchace. 
Ful  riche  he  was  astored  prively, 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly, 
To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owene  good, 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote  and  hood. 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  mister ; 
He  was  a  wel  good  wrighte,  a  carpenter. 
This  reve  sat  up-on  a  ful  good  stot, 
That  was  al  pomely  grey,  and  highte  Scot. 


THE  PROLOGUE  2$ 

A  long  surcote  of  pers  up-on  he  hade, 

And  by  his  syde  he  bar  a  rusty  blade. 

Of  Northfolk  was  this  reve,  of  which  I  telle, 

Bisyde  a  toun  men  clepen  Baldeswelle.  620 

Tukked  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute, 

And  ever  he  rood  the  hindreste  of  our  route. 

The  Somnour 

A  Somnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place, 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  cherubinnes  face, 
For  sawcefleem  he  was,  with  eyen  narwe.  625 

[And  quyk]  he  was,  and  [chirped]  as  a  sparwe ; 
With  scalled  browes  blake,  and  piled  berd ; 
Of  his  visage  children  wer^  aferd. 
Ther  nas  quik-silver,  litarge,  ne  brimstoon. 
Boras,  ceruce,  ne  oille  of  tartre  noon,  630 

Ne  oynement  that  wolde  dense  and  byte, 
That  him  mighte  helpen  of  his  whelkes  whyte, 
Nor  of  the  knobbes  sittings  on  his  chekes. 
Wei  loved  he  garleek,  oynons,  and  eek  lekes, 
And  for  to  drinken  strong  wyn,  reed  as  blood.  635 

Thanne  wolde  he  speke,  and  crye  as  he  were  wood. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  hadde  the  wyn. 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
A  fewe  termes  hadde  he,  two  or  three. 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  som  decree ;  640 

No  wonder  is,  he  herde  it  al  the  day ; 
And  eek  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  jay 
Can  clepen  "  Watte,"  as  wel  as  can  the  pope. 
But  who-so  coude  in  other  thing  him  grope, 
Thanne  hadde  he  spent  al  his  philosophye ;  64s 

Ay  "  Questio  quid  iuris  "  wolde  he  crye. 
He  was  a  gentil  harlot  and  a  kinde ; 
A  bettre  felawe  sholde  men  noght  finde. 
He  wolde  suffre,  for  a  quart  of  wyn, 
A  good  felawe  to  [have  his  wikked  syn]  650 

A  twelf -month,  and  excuse  him  atte  fuUe : 
Ful  prively  a  finch  eek  coude  he  pulle. 


26  CHAUCER 

And  if  he  fond  o-wher  a  good  felawe, 

He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe, 

In  swich  cas,  of  the  erchedeknes  curs,  655 

But-if  a  mannes  souk  were  in  his  purs ; 

For  in  his  purs  he  sholde  y-punisshed  be. 

"  Purs  is  the  erchedeknes  helle,"  seyde  he. 

But  wel  I  woot,  he  lyed  right  in  dede ; 

Of  cursing  oghte  ech  gilty  man  him  drede  —  660 

For  curs  wol  slee,  right  as  assoilling  saveth  — 

And  also  war  him  of  a  Significavit. 

In  daunger  hadde  he  at  his  owene  gyse 

The  yonge  girles  of  the  diocyse, 

And  knew  hir  counseil,  and  was  al  hir  reed.  665 

A  gerland  hadde  he  set  up-on  his  heed, 

As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale-stake ; 

A  bokeler  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake. 

The  Pardoner 

With  him  ther  rood  a  gentil  Pardoner 
Of  Rouncival,  his  freend  and  his  compeer,  670 

That  streight  was  comen  fro  the  court  of  Rome. 
Ful  loude  he  song,  "  Com  hider,  love,  to  me." 
This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun. 
Was  never  trompe  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex,  675 

But  smothe  it  heng,  as  dooth  a  stryke  of  flex ; 
By  ounces  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde. 
And  ther-with  he  his  shuldres  overspradde ; 
But  thinne  it  lay,  by  colpons  oon  and  oon ; 
But  hood,  for  jolitee,  ne  wered  he  noon,  680 

For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Him  thoughts,  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  jet ; 
Dischevelee,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
Swiche  glaringe  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare. 
A  vernicle  hadde  he  sowed  upon  his  cappe.  685 

His  walet  lay  biforn  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful  of  pardon  come  from  Rome  al  hoot. 
A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  eny  goot. 


THE  PROLOGUE  27 

No  berd  hadde  he,  ne  never  sholde  have, 

As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  late  y-shave ;  690 

I  trowe  [his  cheke  and  eek  his  chin  were  bare.] 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwik  into  Ware, 

Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 

For  in  his  male  he  hadde  a  pilwe-beer. 

Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  our  lady  veyl :  695 

He  seyde,  he  hadde  a  gobet  of  the  seyl 

That  seynt  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he  wente 

Up-on  the  see,  til  Jesu  Crist  him  hente. 

He  hadde  a  croys  of  latoun,  ful  of  stones, 

And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones.  700 

But  with  thise  relikes,  whan  that  he  fond 

A  poure  person  dwelling  up-on  lond, 

Up-on  a  day  he  gat  him'  more  moneye 

Than  that  the  person  gat  in  monthes  tweye. 

And  thus,  with  feyned  flaterye  and  japes,  70s 

He  made  the  person  and  the  peple  his  apes. 

But  trewely  to  tellen,  atte  laste, 

He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste. 

Wei  coude  he  rede  a  lessoun  or  a  storie. 

But  alderbest  he  song  an  offertorie ;  710 

For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe, 

He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affyle  his  tonge, 

To  winne  silver,  as  he  ful  wel  coude ; 

Therefore  he  song  so  merily  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  clause,  71s 

Thestat,  tharray,  the  nombre,  and  eek  the  cause 
Why  that  assembled  was  this  companye 
In  Southwerk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye. 
That  highte  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  Belle. 
But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle  720 

How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  night, 
Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrye  alight. 
And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage. 
And  all  the  remenaunt  of  our  pilgrimage. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  FIFTEENTH   CENTURY 

THE  IMITATORS  OF   CHAUCER;    THE  RENAISSANCE; 
THE   PRINTING   PRESS;   THE  BALLAD 

The  fifteenth  century  is  ordinarily  regarded  as  the  most  barren 
period  in  English  literary  history.  It  is  true  that  the  century  pro- 
duced no  poet  who  can  be  considered  in  any  way  comparable  with 
Chaucer,  or  who  may  be  regarded  as  having  any  place  among  the 
greater  English  poets.  Various  explanations  for  this  literary  inac- 
tivity have  been  suggested.  Some  believe  that  it  was  owing  to  the 
distracting  influence  of  the  civil  and  foreign  wars  which  very  largely 
make  up  the  history  of  the  age ;  others,  that  the  intellectual  energies 
of  the  nation  were  too  largely.centred  in  an  effort  to  discard,  once  for 
all,  the  mediaeval  fashion  of  thought  and  expression  —  the  lifeless 
formalities  of  tradition  —  and  to  fit  itself  out  anew  with  the  free  and 
flowing  garments  of  culture  and  romance  presented  by  the  Italian 
Renaissance. 

However,  this  period,  though  barren  of  great  poets,  is  by  no  means 
unimportant  in  the  historical  development  of  our  poetry.  In  the 
first  place  its  literary  judgment  was  sufiiciently  true  to  recognize  in  a 
Chaucer  the  master  that  he  was.  A  considerable  school  of  imitators 
followed  him,  both  in  Scotland,  where  the  productions  at  times  attain 
to  a  really  high  standard,  and  in  England,  where  the  verse,  though  of 
third-rate  excellence,  did  much  to  preserve  Chaucer's  standard  of 
poetic  style  and  to  insure  the  permanence  and  the  nationalization 
of  the  East  Midland  dialect  which  he  had  used. 

More  important  than  the  actual  literary  output  of  this  period  is 
the  wonderful  intellectual  impulse  which  England  was  beginning  to 
receive  through  the  inspiration  of  the  Renaissance.  Many  new  schools 
were  organized.  Oxford  and  Cambridge  grew  apace.  The  great 
universities  of  Scotland  sprang  up.  The  literature  of  the  classics  was 
studied,  and  the  taste  and  culture  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome  again 
became  the  possession  of  the  world.  The  scholasticism  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  with  its  musty  and  pedantic  controversies  concerning  matters  of 

28 


THE  PRINTING  PRESS  29 

no  actual  significance,  shrivelled  away  before  the  vivifying  and  illumi- 
nating blaze  of  the  new  learning.  Finally  mediaeval  romantic  poetry, 
by  whose  influence  France  had  dominated  English  letters  to  the  time 
of  Chaucer,  gave  place  to  a  poetry  dominated  for  nearly  three. cen- 
turies by  the  influence  of  Italy. 

But  one  event  of  the  fifteenth  century  has  played  a  greater  part 
than  any  other  —  perhaps  greater  than  all  others  combined  —  in  the 
development  of  literature.  The  printing  press  was  invented  in  Ger- 
many near  the  middle  of  the  century  and  was  brought  into  England 
by  Caxton  about  1476.  In  our  present  day  of  many  books  it  is  hard 
to  imagine  the  situation  that  had  existed  before  printing  lent  its  aid 
to  the  dissemination  of  thought.  After  1476  it  was  for  the  first  time 
possible  in  England  that  the  world  of  letters  might  become  the  actual 
possession  of  the  world  of  men.  Among  the  hundred  volumes  that 
came-from  Caxton's  press  were  two  or  three  editions  of  Chaucer's 
Canterbury  Tales,  as  well  as  the  MorteDarthiir  of  Sir  Thomas  Malory, 
a  splendid  work  in  prose,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  was  destined  to  be 
the  forerunner  of  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King. 

As  has  been  said,  no  English  poets  of  the  fifteenth  century  attained 
to  any  considerable  eminence.  But  in  spite  of  this  fact,  the  literary 
importance  of  this  period  will  be  apparent  when  we  note  that,  in  all 
probability,  this  was  the  especial  springtide  of  most  of  our  finest  old 
English  ballads.  While,  therefore,  the  more  formal  and  artistic  poetry 
was  absent,  this  popular  lyric  strain  in  English  verse  reached  a  higher 
level  than  any  to  which  it  had  previously  risen.  As  a  factor  in  awak- 
ening the  poetic  sensibihties  of  the  whole  people,  in  increasing  the 
flexibiUty  of  English  verse  forms,  and  in  furnishing,  through  their 
sincerity  and  directness  and  simplicity,  a  model  for  all  subsequent 
*'  literary  "  poets,  the  importance  of  these  ballads  cannot  easily  be 
overestimated.  They  are  for  the  most  part  the  work  of  unknown 
authors,  —  unwritten  songs  from  the  heart  of  the  people,  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation.  Constantly  added  to,  constantly 
changing,  they  appear  as  a  growth,  rather  than  a  conscious  literary 
production ;  and  they  are  a  growth  for  which  much  credit  must  be 
given  to  this  so-called  "  barren  "  fifteenth  century. 

The  student  will  heartily  enjoy  many  of  these  ballads.  To  print 
here  a  representative  collection  would  require  more  space  than  can 
be  afforded,  but  the  best  ballads  are  readily  accessible  in  Gayley  and 
Flaherty's  Poetry  of  the  People  (Ginn  &  Co.)  and  in  the  collections 
edited  by  F.  B.  Gummere  (Athenaeum  Press  Series),  W.  M.  Hart 
(Lake  English  Classics),  and  W.  D«  Armes  (Macmillan's  Pocket 
Classics). 


CHAPTER   IV 
THE   SIXTEENTH   CENTURY 

I.  THE  PRE-ELIZABETHAN  ERA  — A  PERIOD  OF 
PREPARATION 

The  Renaissance  in  England  bore  fruit  more  tardily  than  in  most 
other  European  countries.  Here,  both  in  the  fifteenth  century  and  in 
the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth,  there  was  in  existence  a  process  of 
absorption  and  unconscious  growth,  sooner  or  later  destined  to  find 
expression  in  a  new  English  literature.  Presently,  under  the  impulse 
of  these  influences,  poetry  began  to  assume  the  form  and  spirit  of 
modern  EngHsh  verse.  As  we  have  seen,  the  prime  stimulus  was  de- 
rived from  Italy ;  and  with  two  English  noblemen,  Italian  travellers 
and  scholars,  this  new  poetry  really  had  its  origin.  These  students 
of  the  literary  art  of  Italy  were  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Henry  Howard, 
Earl  of  Surrey.  Though  neither  of  the  two  can  in  any  sense  be  con- 
sidered an  eminent  poet,  still  their  influence  on  our  literature  was  so 
opportune  that  they  deserve  at  least  a  passing  glance. 

Wyatt  (i 503-1 542)  was  a  native  of  Kent  and  a  graduate  of  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  a  favorite  at  the  court  of  Henry  VIII,  and  was  sent 
by  the  king  on  numerous  missions  to  foreign  countries.  This  life 
familiarized  him  with  the  best  literature  of  the  time  and  did  much  to 
develop  his  style ;  for  Wyatt  was  very  early  a  maker  of  verse.  He  ex- 
perimented with  many  forms  of  rhyme  and  metre,  the  most  important 
of  which  was  the  sonnet,  a  stanza  devised  by  Petrarch,  the  sweet 
Italian  lyrist  of  the  fourteenth  century.  To  Wyatt,  accordingly, 
the  English  language  owes  what  has  always  been  regarded  as  one  of 
its  most  expressive  and  harmonious  verse  forms. 

Surrey  (i 518-1547)  was  both  friend  and  disciple  of  Wyatt.  He 
was  educated  at  Oxford,  became  popular  at  court,  served  with  dis- 
tinction in  a  war  with  France,  travelled  and  studied  in  Italy.  At 
length,  falling  under  the  displeasure  of  King  Henry,  he  was  accused 
of  treason  and  beheaded  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-nine.  Though 
less  serious  and  thoughtful  than  Wyatt,  he  shows  in  his  poetry  a  live- 
lier wit  and  a  more  delicate  fancy.     He  not  only  tried  his  hand  at 

30 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE  31 

practically  all  the  metres  which  his  master  had  attempted,  but  went 
farther  by  adding  one  which  has  proved  of  the  very  highest  impor- 
tance in  English  poetry,  —  iambic  pentameter  blank  verse.  It  is 
barely  possible  that  Surrey  invented  this  verse  form,  but  more  prob- 
able that  he  adopted  it  from  the  Italians,  among  whom  it  was  just 
coming  into  use.  He  employed  it  in  his  translation  of  the  second  and 
fourth  books  of  Virgil's  jEneid;  it  was  soon  adopted  by  Sackville 
in  the  versification  of  Ferrex  and  Porrex,  the  first  regular  English 
tragedy ;  it  was  later  developed  by  Marlowe,  the  earliest  of  the  greater 
Elizabethan  dramatists ;  and  it  was  finally  brought  to  its  perfection 
in  the  "  dramatic  blank  "  of  Shakespeare's  plays  and  in  the  "  epic 
blank  "  of  Milton's  longer  poems. 

Undoubtedly  Wyatt  and  Surrey  never  thought  of  publishing  their 
poems ;  nor  did  the  general  public  know  of  these  verses  until  Surrey 
had  been  dead  ten,  and  Wyatt  fifteen,  years.  It  was  at  this  time 
that  a  printer  by  the  name  of  Richard  Tottel  brought  out  a  collection 
of  poems,  worthy  of  our  attention  as  the  first  of  the  kind  in  modern 
English  poetry.  Of  this  collection,  TotteVs  Miscellany  (1557),  nearly 
one  hundred  poems  were  written  by  Wyatt,  about  forty  by  Surrey, 
and  not  far  from  a  hundred  and  fifty  by  various  and  "  uncertain 
authors."  By  this  volume  the  English  world  was  introduced  to  a 
species  of  poetry  entirely  new,  not  only  in  form,  but  also  in  subject 
and  in  treatment.  The  poems  were  nearly  all  lyrics,  many  of  them 
sonnets,  intensely  personal,  and  written  on  the  subject  of  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  their  authors'  loves.  But  by  means  of  this  book  a 
new  standard  was  set  for  EngHsh  verse,  the  preparation  of  a  century 
and  a  half  had  borne  its  fruitage,  and  the  "  Elizabethan  age  "  was 
ushered  in. 


2.  THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE  — THE   FIRST  GREAT 
CREATIVE   PERIOD 

The  first  twenty  years  after  the  accession  of  Elizabeth  in  1558 
are  in  literature  to  a  great  extent  years  of  experiment,  rather  than 
years  of  actual  performance.  In  all  departments  of  Hterary  produc- 
tion —  prose,  the  drama,  and  non-dramatic  poetry,  —  we  see  these 
experiments  everywhere  in  progress,  and  instinctively  feel  that  their 
success  is  near  at  hand.  Circumstances  were  now  favorable  for  the 
active  outburst  of  the  mighty  forces  which  England  had  been  storing 
up  for  the  past  two  centuries.  The  people  were  prosperous  and  con- 
tented.   A  national  spirit   pervaded  the  country  as  never  before. 


32  THE  SIXTEENTH   CENTURY 

Civil  and  religious  disturbances  had,  for  the  time,  ceased.  Commerce 
was  sailing  every  sea,  A  spirit  of  knightly  adventure  was  in  the 
air.  Men  were  coming  more  and  more  to  realize  the  possibilities  of 
life  in  this  old  world  of  ours.  All  classes  vied  with  each  other  in  en- 
thusiastic devotion  to  the  virgin  queen.  In  this  epoch  of  splendid 
energy  it  was  but  natural  that  the  greatness  of  England  should  find 
some  adequate  expression ;  and  it  found  that  expression  in  the  mag- 
nificent poems  and  dramas  which  distinguish  this,  the  greatest  crea- 
tive period  of  her  literature. 

The  chief  distinction  of  this  ag^  is  undoubtedly  the  amazing  de- 
velopment of  the  English  drama.  A  consideration  of  that  form  of 
literature  is  foreign  to  the  purposes  of  this  volume ;  we  must  there- 
fore be  satisfied  to  accord  to  it  here  merely  the  briefest  mention. 
Omitting  all  reference  to  the  growth  of  the  drama  in  its  earlier  forms, 
and  passing  over  a  large  group  of  minor  dramatists  who  of  themselves 
would  have  given  distinction  to  any  lesser  age,  we  may  select  for 
notice  Christopher  marlowe  (i 564-1 593),  Shakespeare's  greatest 
predecessor;  the  scholarly  ben  jonson  (i 573-1637),  an  intellectual 
giant  in  more  ways  than  one;  and,  chief  of  all  (1564-1616),  the 
immortal  Bard  of  Avon.  The  general  verdict  of  his  countrymen 
ranks  Shakespeare  as  incomparably  the  first  of  English  poets. 
And  not  a  few  of  other  than  Anglo-Saxon  birth  will  subscribe  to  the 
words  of  Carlyle,  who  says  in  his  Heroes  afid  Hero  Worship,  "  I  think 
the  best  judgment,  not  of  this  country  only  but  of  Europe  at  large,  is 
pointing  to  the  conclusion  that  Shakespeare  is  the  chief  of  all  poets 
hitherto ;  the  greatest  intellect  who  in  our  recorded  world  has  left  a 
record  of  himself  in  literature."  This,  therefore,  was  a  golden 
achievement  of  the  Elizabethan  age;  that  Shakespeare  and  Jonson 
and  Marlowe  and  a  score  of  others  created  a  dramatic  literature  which 
the  succeeding  three  hundred  years  failed  to  equal  in  any  particular. 

But  standing  apart  from  the  dramatists  was  one  who  would  have 
lent  distinction  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived  even  if,  as  was  the  case 
of  Chaucer,  he  had  been  almost  its  only  poet.  This  was  the  poet  of 
pastoral  and  allegory,  edmund  spenser. 


EDMUND   SPENSER   (1552-1599) 

Edmund  Spenser,  "  the  poet  and  prophet  of  beauty,"  was  born  in 
London  in  1552.  Though  without  the  humor  of  Chaucer,  or  the  dra- 
matic power  and  intensity  of  Shakespeare,  or  the  sublimity  of  Milton, 
or  the  reflective  insight  of  Wordsworth,  Spenser  nevertheless  was  thie 


EDMUND  SPENSER  33 

possessor  of  gifts  which  rank  him  honorably  with  these  masters  of 
English  poetry.  It  is  true  that  the  quahties  which  distinguish  his 
poetry  are  not  such  as  tend  to  make  him  well  known  to  the  general 
reader  of  to-day ;  yet  he  has  exerted  an  influence  on  writers  and  lovers 
of  poetry  sufficient  to  secure  for  him,  above  all  others,  the  title  of  "  the 
poet's  poet." 

1 552-1 580.  —  Of  Spenser's  early  life  little  is  known.  His  parents, 
though  of  good  birth,  were  evidently  poor,  for  we  find  the  future  poet 
at  the  age  of  seventeen  enrolled  at  Pembroke  College,  Cambridge,  as 
a  sizar,  or  charity  student.  Having  duly  taken  his  master's  degree 
at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  he  spent  two  years  in  the  north  of  England, 
probably  with  relatives  in  Lancashire.  On  his  return  south  in  1578 
he  was  introduced  by  a  college  friend  to  the  influential  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter, and  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  nephew  of  the  earl.  By  the  next 
year  he  had  written  his  Shepheardes  Calender,  an  eclogue,  or  pastoral, 
in  twelve  books,  one  for  each  month  of  the  year.  Through  the 
efforts  of  Leicester  he  received,  about  this  time,  an  appointment 
as  secretary  to  Lord  Gray,  the  new  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland.  That 
island,  then  lawless  and  turbulent,  was  destmed  to  be  the  poet's 
home. 

1 580-1 599.  —  Spenser  continued  to  hold  various  official  positions 
in  his  new  home,  and  in  1588  secured  for  himself  the  grant  of  Kil- 
colman  Castle  and  its  estate,  situated  in  county  Cork.  Here  he  was 
visited  the  next  year  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  found  the  poet  in 
the  midst  of  his  great  epic,  the  Faerie  Queene,  of  which  he  had  already 
written  the  first  three  books.  Raleigh  was  so  delighted  with  the 
poem  that  he  persuaded  its  author  to  take  it  to  London,  where  it 
was  received  with  an  equal  delight.  Spenser,  as  an  unwilling  suitor 
for  the  favor  of  the  court,  seems  to  have  spent  nearly  two  years  in 
this  visit  to  England;  and  during  that  time  he  published  not  only 
this  earher  portion  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  but  also  a  volume  of  his 
minor  poems.  Having  received  a  pension  of  fifty  pounds,  he  returned 
to  his  Irish  estate,  where  he  was  married  in  1 594.  The  next  year  he 
came  again  to  London,  with  three  more  books  of  his  great  poem,  which 
he  pubhshed  together  with  his  Prothalaniion  and  other  minor  poems. 
Again  returning  to  Ireland  he  was  made  sheriff  of  Cork  —  an  office 
to  which  he  had  scarcely  been  appointed  when-  a  rebellion  broke  out 
and  his  house  was  burned.  He  was  compelled  to  flee  with  his  family 
for  safety,  first  to  Cork  and  then  to  London,  where,  broken  in  spirit 
and  fortune,  he  died  soon  after  his  arrival,  January,  1599.  He  was 
biiried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  not  far  from  the  tomb  of  Chaucer. 


34 


THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY 


Of  Spenser's  poems,  both  the  Prothalamian  and  the  Epithalamion 
are  stately  strains  remarkable  both  for  their  thought  and  for  the 
melody  of  their  verse.  But  the  Faerie  Queene  will  always  be  most 
intimately  associated  with  the  poet's  name,  not  only  because  it  is  his 
most  considerable  work,  but  also  because  it  ranks  with  the  most  nobly 
conceived  and  executed  of  England's  ideal  poems.  The  noble  pur- 
pose of  this  romantic  epic  Spenser  himself  disclosed  in  a  letter  to 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh:  "The  generall  end  therefore  of  all  the  booke, 
is  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  vertuous  and  gentle  dis- 
cipline." And  so  it  is  that  in  the  beauty  which  invests  the  stories 
of  knightly  adventure  and  heroic  enterprise  with  which  the  poem 
abounds,  the  reader  apprehends  a  constant  spiritual  presence  or  pur- 
pose, —  the  poet's  desire  to  stimulate  youth  to  noble  emulation,  to 
instil  the  chivalrous  ideal  of  manhood,  the  ideal  of  Arthur  and  Lance- 
lot, of  Sir  PhiHp  Sidney  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  His  serious  theme 
Spenser  has  invested  with  the  dream  and  glamour  of  the  land  of  faery, 
"with  its  hidden  pow'r  of  herbs  and  might  of  magic  spell,"  its  elves 
and  guileful  sprights,  charmed  ladies  and  lagging  dwarfs,  witches 
and  wizards,  darksome  caves,  fearful  dragons,  and  mysterious  castles. 
If  Chaucer's  Wife  of  Bath  could  have  entered  Spenser's  forests  of  mar- 
vel, she  would  not  have  begun  her  Canterbury  story  with  the  com- 
plaint, 

In  tholde  dayes  of  the  Kyng  Arthour, 
Of  which  that  Britons  speken  greet  honour, 
All  was  this  land  fulfild  of  faerye. 
The  elf  queene  with  hir  joly  compaignye 
Daunced  ful  oite  in  many  a  grene  mede. 
This  was  the  olde  opinion  as  I  rede,  — 
I  speke  of  manye  hundred  yeres  ago,  — 
But  now  kan  no  man  se  none  elves  mo. 

That  all  the  antique  imagery  of  this  land  of  faery  is  but  a  way  of 
quaintly  and  perhaps  wistfully  commending' to  our  hearts  the  pro- 
founder  theme  of  an  unworldly  spirit,  Spenser  himself  intimates  in 
this  address  to  Queen  Elizabeth : 

Right  well  I  wote,  most  mighty  sovereign, 
That  all  this  famous  antique  history 
Of  some  th'  abundance  of  an  idle  brain 
Will  judged  be,  and  painted  forgery. 
Rather  than  matter  of  just  memory ; 


EDMUND  SPENSER  35 

Sith  none  that  breatheth  living  air  doth  know 
Where  is  that  happy  land  of  Faery, 
Which  I  so  much  do  vaunt,  yet  nowhere  show ; 
But  vouch  antiquities,  which  nobody  can  know. 

But  let  that  man  with  better  sense  advise,  lo 

That  of  the  world  least  part  to  us  is  read ; 
And  daily  how  through  hardy  enterprize 
Many  great  regions  are  discovered, 
Which  to  late  age  were  never  mentioned,  — 
Who  ever  heard  of  th'  Indian  Peru  ?  is 

Or  who  in  venturous  vessel  measured 
The  Amazon,  huge  river,  now  found  true  ? 
Or  f ruitf ullest  Virginia  who  did  ever  view  ? 

Yet  all  these  were,  when  no  man  did  them  know, 
Yet  have  from  wisest  ages  hidden  been ;  20 

And  later  times  things  more  unknown  shall  show. 
Why  then  should  witless  man  so  much  misween, 
That  nothing  is,  but  that  which  he  hath  seen  ? 
What,  if  within  the  moon's  fair  shining  sphere, 
What,  if  in  every  other  star  unseen,  25 

Of  other  worlds  he  happily  should  hear  ? 
He  wonder  would  much  more ;  yet  such  to  some  appear. 

Of  Faery  land  yet  if  he  more  inquire, 
By  certain  signs,  here  set  in  sundry  place. 
He  may  it  find ;  .  .  .  30 

And  thou,  O  fairest  princess  under  sky, 
In  this  fair  mirror  mayst  behold  thy  face, 
And  thine  own  realms  in  land  of  Faery, 
And  in  this  antique  image  thy  great  ancestry. 

Doubtless  it  is  to  this  characteristic  union  of  romantic  chivalry, 
fairy  enchantment,  and  spiritual  intent  that  Milton  refers  in  //  Pen- 
seroso,  lines  1 16-120  (see  below,  p.  73). 

In  the  softness  and  melody  of  his  verse,  the  luxurious  richness  and 
harmony  of  his  colorings,  the  delicacy  of  his  fanciful  conceptions, 


36  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY 

his  sensitiveness  to  beauty  of  every  form,  —  in  short,  in  the  imagi- 
native and  sensuous,  the  purely  "  poetical,"  no  Enghshman  has  sur- 
passed, and  few  have  ever  approached  Spenser.  His  art  of  gentle, 
picturesque  beauty  may  be  seen  in  this  description  of  a  hermitage : 

A  little  lowly  Hermitage  it  was,  3S 

Down  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forest's  side, 
Far  from  resort  of  people  that  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro :  a  little  wide 
There  was  an  holy  chapel  edified, 

Wherein  the  Hermit  duly  wont  to  say  40 

His  holy  things  each  morn  and  eventide ; 
Thereby  a  crystal  stream  did  gently  play. 
Which  from  a  sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alway. 

The  dreamery  of  his  music  is  felt  in  these  lines  on  the  dwelling  of 
Morpheus,  the  god  of  sleep : 

And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  stream  from  high  rock  tumbling  down,         45 
And  ever-drizzling  fain  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  wind  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  Bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swoon. 
No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  town,  50 

Might  there  be  heard ;  but  careless  Quiet  lies 
Wrapt  in  eternal  silence  far  from  enemies. 


Thus  throughout  the  long  poem  —  and  it  is  one  of  the  longest  in  our 
language,  more  than  twice  the  length  of  Paradise  Lost  or  the  Idylls 
of  the  King  —  Spenser  "  pour'd  his  song  o'er  all  the  mazes  of  enchanted 
ground."  "  His  verse,"  said  Matthew  Arnold,  "  is  more  fluid,  slips 
more  easily  and  quickly  along,  than  the  verse  of  almost  any  other 
English  poet." 

The  fearful  and  the  horrible,  too,  fall  again  and  again  under 
the  sway  of  Spenser's  genius,  as  in  this  account  of  the  cave  of  the 
"  man  of  hell  that  calls  himself  Despair  " : 


EDMUND  SPENSER  37 

Ere  long  they  come  where  that  same  wicked  wight 
His  dwelHng  has,  low  in  a  hollow  cave, 
Far  underneath  a  craggy  cliff  ypight,  $5 

Dark,  doleful,  dreary,  like  a  greedy  grave, 
That  still  for  carrion  carcases  doth  crave : 
On  top  whereof  aye  dwelt  the  ghastly  Owl, 
Shrieking  his  baleful  note,  which  ever  drave 
Far  from  that  haunt  all  other  cheerful  fowl,  60 

And  all  about  it  wand'ring  ghosts  did  wail  and  howl. 

To  Chaucer,  whom  he  loved,  Spenser  owed  something  of  his 
art ;  to  Spenser  the  poets  who  followed  him  owed  much  of  theirs. 
From  Sidney,  his  contemporary,  to  Milton;  from  Cowley,  Gray, 
and  James  Thomson  to  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  and  William 
Morris,  —  English  poets  have  listened  to  the  sweetness  of  Spenser's 
verse  and  in  what  Lowell  calls  his  "  land  of  pure  heart's  ease  " 
have,  drunk  deep  of  a  subtle  beauty.  But  few  have  reverenced  him 
to  better  effect  than  did  Keats.  The  student  who  delights  in  The 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes  —  the  Beadsman  and  his  "  thousand  aves  told," 
and  Angela  the  old,  feebly  laughing  in  the  languid  moon  —  will  find 
strangely  familiar  many  a  line  and  picture  in  the  Faerie  Qiceene,  —  for 
example,  this  description  of  Una's  forcible  entrance  into  Corceca's 
hut. 

Which  when  none  yielded,  her  unruly  Page 
With  his  rude  claws  the  wicket  open  rent. 
And  let  her  in ;  where,  of  his  cruel  rage 
Nigh  dead  with  fear,  and  faint  astonishment,  65 

She  found  them  both  in  darksome  corner  pent ; 
Where  that  old  woman  day  and  night  did  pray 
Upon  her  beads  devoutly  penitent ; 
Nine  hundred  Fater  nosters  every  day, 
And  thrice  nine  hundred  Aves^  she  was  wont  to  say.  70 

And,  to  augment  her  painful  penance  more. 

Thrice  every  week  in  ashes  she  did  sit. 

And  next  her  wrinkled  skin  rough  sackcloth  wore, 

And  thrice  three  times  did  fast  from  any  bit : 

But  now  for  fear  her  beads  she  did  forget.  75 


38  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY 


ELIZABETHAN   LYRISTS 

The  songs  of  the  Elizabethan  age  are  unexcelled  in  spontaneous 
vigor,  charm,  and  sincerity.  Some  one  has  said  that  England  was 
at  this  time  ''  a  nest  of  singing  birds."  At  no  other  time  in  her 
history,  and  possibly  in  no  other  voice  save  that  of  Burns,  has  the 
"  singing  note,"  rung  so  true  and  clear  as  from  the  throng  of  Eliza- 
bethan poets.  They  sang  of  many  subjects  —  of  the  herdsman's 
happy  life  and  the  pleasures  of  the  greenwood,  of  spring  flowers  and 
the  lark  at  heaven's  gate,  of  nightingales  and  the  moon  excellently 
bright,  of  the  icicles  of  winter  and  of  milk  frozen  in  the  pail,  of  Virginia 
voyages  and  of  battles  by  land  and  sea,  of  ingratitude  and  benefits 
forgot,  of  the  noble  contentment  of  the  philosopher  and  of  the  eerie 
ways  of  fairy  folk,  of  the  mystery  of  living  and  dying  —  but  most  of  all 
they  sang  of  golden  lads  and  lasses,  of  sweet  and  twenty,  and  true 
love's  coming,  and  journeys  that  end  in  lovers  meeting.  Various 
as  are  these  love  notes,  ranging  from  the  arch  compHment  of  the 
courtier  to  what  is  almost  the  simple  freshness  of  the  folk  song,  they 
are  as  a  whole  astonishingly  exquisite  and  true,  —  like  the  unpre- 
meditated overflow  of  happy  minds. 

The  sonnet,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  introduced  into  English 
poetry  by  Wyatt  and  Surrey  in  the  pre-Elizabethan  period.  Little 
attention,  however,  was  paid  to  the  new  form  until  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
published,  in  1591,  his  sonnet  sequence,  Astrophel  and  Stella,  in  which 
he  celebrates  his  devotion  to  a  fair  incognita,  probably  Penelope 
Devereux,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Essex.  The  enthusiasm  with 
which  these  sonnets  were  received  marked  the  beginning  of  an  extraor- 
dinary vogue.  In  the  next  few  years  many  sonnet  sequences  ap- 
peared, including  those  of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare ;  before  long  Eng- 
lish sonnets  could  be  counted  by  the  thousand.  Though  some  ex- 
cellent poetry  was  composed  in  this  new  style  of  verse,  the  form  itseM 
was  highly  artificial,  and  in  general  the  Elizabethan  sonnet  is  self- 
conscious  and  strained  in  comparison  with  the  songs  of  the  period 

To  write  sonnets  and  songs  was  the  fashion  of  the  time.  Men  of 
affairs,  like  sm  Walter  raleigh  (i  552-1618),  and  sir  edward  dyer 
(i55o?-i6o7) ;  courtiers,  like  sir  philep  Sidney  (i 554-1 586) ;  critics 
and  musicians,  like  thomas  campion  (i567?-i6i9)  ;  dramatists  and 

poets  —  SPENSER  (1552-1599),  JOHN  LYLY  (l554?-l6o6),  GEORGE 
PEELE  (1558-1598?),  ROBERT  GREENE  (1560?-! 592),  CHRISTOPHER 
MARLOWE  (1564-1593),  BEN  JONSON  (1573-1637),  FRANCIS  BEAU- 
MONT (i 584-1616),  —  all  these,  who  are  represented  in  this  book, 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRISTS  39 

and  many  more  who  are  not  included  here,  composed  with  happy- 
ardor.  But  the  greatest  of  them  was  Shakespeare  (i 564-1616). 
Since  his  glory  rests  chiefly  upon  his  plays,  an  account  of  his  life  and 
works  does  not  come  within  the  scope  of  this  book.  But  fortunately 
this  master  of  drama  is  also  a  master  in  the  Ijnric.  We  have  space 
here  for  only  three  of  his  best  sonnets  and  nine  of  his  incompar- 
able songs. 

Some  of  the  lyrics  which  follow  were  first  published  a  few  years 
after  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  for  convenience'  sake,  and 
because  the  age  was  still  Elizabethan,  they  are  here  included  with 
those  written  before  1601.  The  dates  of  the  poems  are  given  in  the 
Notes,  and  the  poets  are  arranged,  irrespective  of  their  relative  im- 
portance, in  the  order  of  their  dates  of  birth. 


SIR  EDWARD   DYER   (i55o?-i6o7) 

MY  MIND  TO   ME  A  KINGDOM  IS 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind : 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 


I  see  how  plenty  [surfeits]  oft, 

And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall ; 
I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 
They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear : 
Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay ; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice ; 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway ;  15 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies  :^ 
Lo,  thus  I  triimiph  like  a  king,  1 

Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring.fl 


40  ELIZABETHAN  LYRISTS 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  crave ; 

I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more.  20 

They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store : 
They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  I  leave ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease ;  ns 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence ; 

I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please. 
Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence : 

Thus  do  I  live ;  thus  will  I  die ; 

Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I !  30 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH   (1552-1618) 

A   VISION   UPON   THIS   CONCEIT   OF   THE   FAERY   QUEEN 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 
Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn ;  and,  passing  by  that  way, 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame. 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept,  s 

All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen ; 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept, 
And  from  thenceforth  those  graces  were  not  seen. 
For  they  this  queen  attended ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse.  10 

Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed. 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce : 
Where  Homer's  sprite  did  tremble  all  for  grief. 
And  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 

THE   CONCLUSION 

Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust  is 

Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave,  . 


APELLES'  SONG  41 


¥ 


When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days : 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY   (1554-1586) 

A  BARGAIN 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss. 
There  never  was  a  bargain  better  driven. 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides. 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides. 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

JOHN  LYLY    (i554?-i6o6) 

APELLES'    SONG 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses ;  Cupid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow  and  arrows. 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows : 

Loses  them  too ;  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how) ; 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin : 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 


42  ELIZABETHAN  LYRISTS 

GEORGE  PEELE   (1558-1598?) 

/  HARVESTMEN  A-SINGING 

All  ye  that  lovely  lovers  be, 

Pray  you  for  me : 

Lo,  here  we  come  a-sowing,  a-sowing, 

And  sow  sweet  fruits  of  love ; 

In  your  sweet  hearts  well  may  it  prove  !  5 

Lo,  here  we  come  a-reaping,  a-reaping. 
To  reap  our  harvest-fruit ! 
And  thus  we  pass  the  year  so  long, 
And  never  be  we  mute. 

ROBERT  GREENE   (i56o?-i592;     ' 

sephestia's  song  to  her  child 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy ; 

When  thy  father  first  did  see  5 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me. 

He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 

Fortune  changed  made  him  so. 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy 

Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy.  10 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 
Streaming  tears  that  never  stint. 
Like  pearl  drops  from  a  flint. 
Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes,  15 

That  one  another's  place  supplies ; 
Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part,  ^ 

Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  43 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy.  20 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee. 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt ; 

More  he  crowed,  more  he  cried,  25 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide : 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bliss, 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy.  30 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee. 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE   (1564-1593) 

THE  PASSIONATE   SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 

And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 

That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  fields, 

Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yields.  4 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 

And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 

A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 

Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ;  12 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 

Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 

Fair-lined  slippers  Jor  the  cold. 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ;  16 


44  SHAKESPEARE 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delights  each  May  morning ; 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE   (1564-1616) 
Three  Sonnets 

XXIX 

When,  in  disgrace  with  for^iun^  and  men^s  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  rny  outcast  state,     *^" ' 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries. 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope,  S 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed. 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  —  and  then  my  state,  10 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

XXX 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  ^  15 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past,  > 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought,      d. 

And  with  old  woes  now  wail  my  dear  time's  waste  iy 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow,  (?/  ,j 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night,  {^         20 


SONNETS  45 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancelled  woe,    A 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight,  dy 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone,  X/ 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er  -J- 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan.  -^  25 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before,  "fr 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend,  ^ 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end.         ^ 

cxvi 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love  30 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds. 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 

O,  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark,  35 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks. 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom.  40 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

Nine  Songs 

WINTER  »     \ 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail. 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 

When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul,  5 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tu-whit ! 

To-who  1    A  merry  note  ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


46  SHAKESPEARE 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow,  lo 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl  is 

Tu-whit! 

To-who  !    A  merry  note  ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


WHO  IS   SILVIA? 


't. 


Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she. 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ?  20 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness.  25 

Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness. 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ;  30 

She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


UNDER   THE   GREENWOOD   TREE  ' 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me,  35 

And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat  — 


SONGS  47 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy  40 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets  — •  4< 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


INGRATITUDE 


\ 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  V  so 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
I         As  man's  ingratitude ; 
I     Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
I     Because  thou  art  not  seen. 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude.  ss 

Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 
Then,  heigh  ho  I  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky,  60 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot : 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not.  65 

Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh  ho  !  the  holly  I 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 


48  SHAKESPEARE 


<h/ 


DIRGE   OF   LOVE  ,^7  / 

W/  ! 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death,  ^ 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it !  75 

My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet  80 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave,  y 

To  weep  there.  «,^V    % 


AUBADE 


,eA' 


Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin  90 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes : 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is. 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ! 
Arise,  arise !  ^A''^ 

\f 

THE   FAIRY   LIFE  ^ 

these  vellow  sands,  95 

And  then  tal^e  hands 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kissed 
The  wild  waves  whist. 


SONGS  49 

Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear.  loo 

Hark,  hark ! 

Bow-wow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark :  * 

Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  105 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 


'\ 


A   SEA   DIRGE 


Full  fathom  five"thy-father^lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ;  no 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Ding-dong !  us 

Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  —  Ding-dong,  bell ! 


Ariel's  song 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I,  \^  .  -j*''' 

In  a-ceWsIip^s  belt  I  lie, 

There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry ; 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  simimer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough  ! 


50  ELIZABETHAN  LYRISTS 

THOMAS   CAMPION   (i567?-i6i9) 


CHERRY-RIPE 


There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

jre  roses  and  white  iuies  blow : 


A  heavenly  paraaisie  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow : 

There  cherries  grow  which  none  may  buy 
Till  '  Cherry-ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows. 
They  look  like  rosebuds  filled  with  snow ; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy    ■ 
Till  ^  Cherry-ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand. 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  '  Cherry-ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 


BEN    JONSON   (1573-1637) 

SONG  TO   CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


HYMN   TO  DIANA  $1 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee  lo 

As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear,  is 

Not  of  itself  but  thee  ! 

HYMN   TO   DIANA 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  :  20 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made  25 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close : 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight. 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver ;  30 

Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night. 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

SIMPLEX  MUNDITIIS 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  dressed,  35 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 


52 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRISTS 


\ 


Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  th'  adulteries  of  art ; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  h^rt. 


45 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT   (1584-1616) 


ON   THE   TOMBS   IN   WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 

/Mortality,  behold  and  fear  ! 
/  What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  ! 
I  Think  how  many  royal  bones 
I   Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ; 
I  Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 
\  Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 
VWhere  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 
Vhey  preach,  '  In  greatness  is  no  trust/ 
Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest,  royallest  seed 
That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin : 
I  Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried 
*  *  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died  ! ' 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings : 

(Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


IS 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

I.  TO  THE  RESTORATION 

By  the  "  Elizabethan  age  "  literary  historians  commonly  under- 
stand not  only  the  years  which  comprise  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  but 
also  those  of  the  first  two  Stuarts  and  even  of  the  Commonwealth, 
that  is,  down  to  the  Restoration  in  1660.  We  are  undoubtedly  jus- 
tified in  conceiving  the  boimdaries  of  the  era  as  extending  beyond 
the  great  queen's  death,  in  1603,  for  at  that  time  much  of  Shake- 
speare's best  work  was  as  yet  imaccomplished,  and  Ben  Jonson,  who 
must  certainly  be  classed  as  an  Elizabethan,  had  been  writing  only  a 
very  few  years.  But  the  later,  or  post-Elizabethan,  literature  soon 
showed  signs  of  decadence;  the  spirit  which  had  animated  it  was  . 
failing ;  and  by  the  time  that  the  young  Milton  had  written  his  first 
lyrics,  1629,  the  old  order  had  well-nigh  passed.  The  Puritan  move- 
ment against  the  authority  of  the  established  church  and  the  despo- 
tism of  the  crown  was  fast  gathering  head  for  the  Great  Rebellion 
of  1642  to  1649,  by  which  both  were  overthrown. 

In  this  chapter  we  shall  first  consider  the  poetry  of  the  thirty  years 
preceding  the  Restoration  as  represented  by  the  lyrics  of  a  group  of 
writers  all  CavaHer,  that  is,  royalist  by  birth  or  association,  but  some 
of  them  no  less  genuinely  devoted  to  the  concerns  of  the  spiritual 
life  than  any  Puritan.  We  shall  then  pass  to  their  great  contem- 
porary, the  poet  in  whom  the  Puritan  movement  found  its  supreme 
expression,  John  Milton. 
•v^^^Religious  preoccupation  and,  by  reacti<M^-4^-debonaif  j^-uncon- 
vinceH'^^oridlijiess.of^he'cfafe-free  Cavalier  were  the  dominant  mnndR  ^ 
of  the  new  age  and  the  new  l)n-ic.  An  oscillation  between  these  moods 
is  evident  in  the  work  of  many  a  poet  of  that  day,  though  each  mood 
also  had  its  own  particular  Parnassus  of  poets  solely  devoted  to  its 
service.  Several  of  these  writers  modelled  their  verse  on  the 
clarity  and  metrical  excellence  of  Ben  Jonson.    But  as  a  whole  the 

■  ~-  — ~~ 53. ^  r 


54  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

lyric  poetry  of  the  period  is  characterized  by  a  subtle  introspective 
quality,  a  conscious  artificiality  and  exaggeration,  by  a  deliberale 
search  for  clever  phrases  and  fantastic  images,  —  derived  chiefly 
from  the  example  set  by  johndonne  (1573-1631),  of  whom  we  cannot 
say  more  here.  At  the  worst,  the  Ijric  of  the  contemporary  gallant 
is  marked  by  fi  I  11111I  1  iimhiiiiiii  ]^.art1e^s  insinrpritv,  nnH  cynical  hy- 
pocrisy. Doubtless  something  of  EIiza'iDetlian  spontai^eit^-and  vigor 
lingered ;  not  a  few  of  the  older  strains  were  yet  heard,  less  natural, 
perhaps,  and  less  rapturous  than  before,  but  still  of  a  distinctive  grace 
and  beauty.  Here  we  shall  note  only  a  few  of  the  nobler  or  more 
charming  expressions  of  the  two  principal  moods  of  the  age. 

CAVALIER  LYRISTS 

Robert  Herrick  (i'59i-i674),  the  easy-going  Devonshire  vicar, 
the  genial  poet  of  conviviality,  country  jollities,  and  sprightly 
maidens,  was  not  exactly  Chaucer's  kind  of  '  poure  Persoun.'  Poor 
he  was,  and  for  twenty  years  he  lived  slenderly  and  quietly  in  the 
little  out-of-the-way  Vicarage  of  Dean  Prior,  near  Dartmoor,  quite 
removed  from  the  turmoil  and  conflict  of  the  age;  but  with  what- 
ever gentleness  he  may  have  discharged  the  pastoral  duties  of  his 
office,  his  genius  was  certainly  for  the  incantation  of  sensuous  and 
social  pleasures. 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers, 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers ; 
I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 
Of  bridegrooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal-cakes. 

So  he  states,  in  part,  the  argument  of  his  collection  of  lyrics  which 
he  called  Hesperides  (1648),  and,  he  adds,  he  would  have  his  verses 
read  "  when  that  men  have  both  well  drunk  and  fed  .  .  .  and  laurel 
spirts  i'  the  fire."  His  lyrics  are  among  the  most  tuneful  in  EngUsh 
poetry.  This  quality  and  the  allurement  of  his  simple,  joyous  sub- 
jects make  him  one  of  the  most  sunny  and  beguiling  of  English  lyrists. 
He  came  also  und^t  the  sway  of  the  religious  mood;  but  his  more 
serious  poems.  Noble  Numbers  (1647),  reveal  a  personality  no  less 
attractive  because  of  greater  depth. 

Entirely  devoted  to  religious  musing  were  george  Herbert  (1593- 
1633)  and  HENRY  VAUGHAN  (1622-1695).  Herbert's  is  the  quieter 
spirits  the  more  ingenious  and  fanciful ;  Vaughan  is  more  intense 
and  ^imaginative.    Herbert's    subjects  are    simpler,    his    language 


"^  CAVALIER  LYRISTS  55 

quainter,  his  music  smoother;  Vaughan's  themes  comprise  the  ec- 
sJLaJlieHL'e v^i ic5T»f4h£Lgiystic,  his  diction  is  more  vigdrous,  and  his'fflusic 
grander.  Two  other  religiduTpoets  of  the  age  wei^'«E^tG®'6AWir2^ 
trsf7-i643)  and  richard  crashaw  (i6i5?-i65o).  —  The  Cavalier 
poets  whose  service  was  all  of  the  other  sort,  —  courtly,  playful, 
worldly,  —  are  represented  here  by  sir  john  suckling  (1609-1642) 
and  RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658).  The  lives  of  these  two  young 
Royalists  were  as  tragic  as  their  verses  are  vivacious;  but  that  is 
another  story.  Some  of  their  love  poems  show  very  clearly  the  in- 
sincerity of  compliment  and  extravagance  of  imagery  which  were 
characteristic  of  court  poetry  and  which  are  particularly  evident  in 
the  work  of  thomas  carew  (i589?-i639).  —  james  shirley  (1596- 
1666),  a  voluminous  but  imitative  writer  of  masques  and  plays,  is 
known  to  the  ordinary  reader  of  to-day  chiefly  by  the  noble  lyric, 
true  to  the  best  English  traditions  of  political  justice,  which  is  printed 
below.  WILLIAM  HABiNGTON  (1605-1654)  wrotc  of  lovc  ^ud  religion, 
but  his  love  lyrics  are  a  beautiful  tribute  to  his  wife,  "  the  center  alike 
of  his  life  and  poetry."  Our  selection  is  the  best  example  of  his  re- 
ligious verse,  —  mystical  and  stern.  Of  the  ecstasy  with  which  both 
Vaughan  and  Habington  contemplate  God  in  nature  the  student  will 
be  reminded  when  he  comes  to  read  Wordsworth,  edmuz^jd  waller 
(1605-1687),  regarded  by  his  contemporaries  as  the  first  of  English 
poets,  popularized  the  "  closed  "  couplet,  rhymed  and  rhetorical, 
which  became  the  vehicle  of  the  "  reformed  poetry  "  of  the  age  of 
Dry  den  and  Pope.  "  Waller's  muse  always  presents  herself  in  irre- 
proachable condition,  not  a  curl  out  of  place,  not  a  spot  or  crease  on 
her  dress,  the  colors  chosen  with  sufficient  taste,  the  arrangement 
made  with  sufficient  skill."  —  For  the  lyrics  of  mtlton  (1608-1674) 
see  the  next  subdivision  of  this  chapter. 

The  poets  are  arranged  in  the  order  of  their  dates  of  birth. 


ROBERT   HERRICK   (1591-1674) 

GATHER   YE  ROSEBUDS  WHILE   YE  MAY 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


56  CAVALIER  LYRISTS 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun,  5 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run. 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ;  10 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 

Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 
For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime,  15 

You  may  forever  tarry. 


TO   DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon.  20 

Stay,  stay. 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we  25 

Will  go  with  you  along.  , 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you,  or  anything.  _  30 

We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew,  35 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


VIRTUE  57 

GEORGE  HERBERT   (1593-1633) 


I 


VIRTUE 


Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 

For  thou  must  die.  4 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die.  8 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes,. 

And  all  must  die.  12 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

*Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives.  16 


JAMES   SHIRLEY   (1596-1666) 

THE  GLORIES  OF  OUR  BLOOD  AND  STATE 


The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down. 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 


i 


58  CAVALIER  LYRISTS 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ;  ic 

But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield, 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate. 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath  15 

When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds :  20 

Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


EDMUND   WALLER   (1605-1687) 

GO,   LOVELY  ROSE  ! 

Go,  lovely  rose, 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be.  5 

Tell  her  that's  young. 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  had'st  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died.  10 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth. 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired.  "^         i^ 


NOX  NOCTI  INDICAT  SCIENTIAM  59 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair.  20 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON   (1605-1654) 

NOX  NOCTI  INDICAT   SCIENTIAM 

When  I  survey  the  bright 
Celestial  sphere, 
So  rich  with  jewels  hung;  that  night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear,.  4 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread 
And  heavenward  flies, 
Th'  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 

In  the  large  volumes  of  the  skies.  8 

For  the  bright  firmament 

Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  the  Creator's  name.  12 

No  unregarded  star 

Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 
Removed  far  from  our  human  sight,  16 

But,  if  we  steadfast  look, 
We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book. 
How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn.  20 

It  tells  the  conqueror 

That  far-stretched  power. 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 

Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour  ;  24 


6o  CAVALIER   LYRISTS 

That  from  the  farthest  North, 
Some  nation  may, 
Yet  undiscovered,  issue  forth, 

And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway :  28 

Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice 
May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice.  32 

And  then  they  likewise  shall 
Their  ruin  have ; 
For  as  yourselves  your  empires  fall, 

And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave.  36 

Thus  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute. 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires 

And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute ;  40 

For  they  have  watched  since  first 
The  world  had  birth, 
And  found  sin  in  itself  accursed, 

And  nothing  permanent  on  earth.  44    i 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING   (1609-1642) 

WHY   SO   PALE   AND   WAN,   FOND   LOVER? 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Pry  thee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Pry  thee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pry  thee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Pry  thee,  why  so  mute  ?  '         i 


THE  RETREAT  6l 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  devil  take  her  !  is 

RICHARD   LOVELACE   (1618-1658) 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind. 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly.  4 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield.  8 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  thou  too  shalt  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee.  Dear,,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more.  12 

HENRY  VAUGHAN   (1622-1695) 

THE   RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 

Shined  in  my  angel-infancy. 

Before  I  understood  this  place 

Appointed  for  my  second  race. 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought  5 

But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 

A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love. 

And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face ;  10 


62  CAVALIER  LYRISTS 

When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 

My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity ; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound  is 

My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 

A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 

Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness.  20 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train ; 
From  whence  th'  enlightened  spirit  sees  25 

That  shady  City  of  palm  trees. 
But  ah,  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way  ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love. 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ;  30 

And,  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

From   THE    WORLD 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright ;  35 

And  round  beneath  it  Time  in  hours,  days,  years 

Driven  by  the  spheres 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved ;  in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 

From   departed    FRIENDS 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light,  40 

And  I  alone  sit  ling'ring  here ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, ,  j 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 


THE  PURITAN  INFLUENCE  63 

THE  PURITAN  INFLUENCE 

The  age  of  which  we  are  speaking  differed  from  the  Elizabethan 
in  many  respects,  but  chiefly  in  that  it  was  marked  by  a  great  civil 
and  religious  conflict.  It  is  called  the  period  of  the  Puritan  revolu- 
tion ;  but  its  literary  Hmits  cannot  be  precisely  defined,  for  literary 
eras  are  independent  of  arbitrary  or  external  bounds.  Some  Eliza- 
bethan poets,  for  instance,  lived  on  and  wrote  up  to  the  time  of  the 
Restoration ;  and  the  greatest  of  Puritans,  Milton  and  Bunyan,  pro- 
duced their  most  characteristic  work  after  their  "  period  "  had  passed 
away  and  the  excesses  of  the  profligate  Restoration  had  begun.  There 
is  no  doubt,  however,  that  from  about  1610  to  1660,  England,  as  a 
whole,  was  stirred  by  emotions  and  inspired  by  ideals  far  different 
from  those  which  had  held  sway  during  the  years  of  the  Tudor 
Elizabeth.  Characteristic  tendencies  —  not  to  be  confounded  with 
those  that  followed  or  preceded  —  marked  this  period  of  Puritan 
influence. 

In  many  ways  the  Puritan  movement  affected  the  life  of  the  na- 
tion. "  England,"  says  Green,  "  became  the  people  of  a  book,  and 
that  book  was  the  Bible."  For  fifty  years  the  religious  side  of  life 
had  been  gaining  in  prominence.  Theological  discussion  was  rife. 
Men  were  developing,  spiritually  and  intellectually.  Demands  for 
larger  freedom,  civil  and  religious,  grew  more  vehement  year  by  year. 
These  demands  James  I  and  his  son  Charles  I  ignored  or  scornfully 
refused  to  grant.  Charles  went  so  far  in  his  insistence  upon  his  "  di- 
vine right  "  to  absolute  power  that  in  1642  the  great  middle  class  of 
England  found  itseff  in  arms  against  him.  Since  in  the  conflict  that 
ensued  the  established  church  remained  loyal  to  the  king,  the  breach 
between  churchman  and  Puritan  was  widened.  The  period  was 
characterized  by  bitter  religious  and  political  controversy,  by  perse- 
cution, turbulence,  and  civil  war.  In  1649  Charles  was  overthrown,  a 
Protectorate  was  soon  established,  and  the  triumph  of  Puritanism 
was  complete.  \ 

This  condition  of  affairs  found  expression  in  Hterature.     Religious      I 
verse,  theological  discussions,  fierce  political  treatises,  now  largely     / 
took  the  place  of  the  rich,  romantic  poetry  of  the  former  age.     The  / 
purely  Hterary  impulse  was  checked.     With  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  \ 
War  the  theatres  were  closed  and  "  the  splendid  drama  of  the  Eliza-      \ 
bethans  languished  and  died."    A  chorus  of  lyrists  kept  up  its  sing- 
ing, as  we  know,  but  the  poetry  of  the  period  would  rank  low  in  the       I 

-—^--^—  / 


64  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 


JOHN  MILTON   (1608-1674) 

Milton  embodies  in  its  most  artistic  literary  form  the  spirit  of  Puri- 
tanism at  its  best.  He  is  justly  regarded  not  only  as  the  poet,  par  excel- 
lence, of  his  time,  but  as  one  of  the  great  poets  of  all  time.  In  scholarly 
attainment,  in  critical  insight,  in  his  love.of  nature  and  truth,  in  his 
purity  and  earnestness  of  purpose,  in  his  mastery  of  the  grand  style 
suitable  to  the  reflective  and  epic  expression,  he  is  the  equal,  if  not 
the  superior,  of  any  other  English  poet.  He  is  lacking  in  dramatic 
power  and  in  humor,  and  hence,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  the  human 
element.  He  is  thecef ore.nQt.  a^Shakespeare .  In  narrative  portrayal 
of  actual  life  he  is  not  even  a  Chaucer ;  yet  he  is  fittingly  regarded  as 
the  most  excellent  of  English  non-dramatic  poets.  His  later  poems, 
more  than  any  others  in  the  language,  may  be  described  by  the  adjec- 
tive "  sublime  ";  his  early_ly_rics  have  Jhe  ^race,  lightness,  and  ex- 
quisite-fitness  of  phrase  that  mark  the  genius  in  verse^  the  artificer'' 
In  words.  Milton  was,  moreover,  a  man  of  broad  public  activity",' 
arid  In  this  respect  alone  he  would  have  left  a  deep  impress  upon  the 
history  of  his  time.  So  strong  is  his  personality  that  through  his 
works  we  know  him  almost  as  well  as  we  know  our  contemporaries. 
His  life  falls  easily  into  four  very  distinct  divisions. 

1608-1632.  —  Milton  was  born  in  London  in  December,  1608. 
His  father  was  by  occupation  a  scrivener,  one  whose  business  it  is 
to  draw  up  contracts  and  other  legal  documents ;  and  was,  moreover, 
a  man  of  culture  and  of  no  little  musical  ability.  The  future  poet's 
early  education  was  received  partly  at  St.  Paul's  school  near  his  home, 
and  partly  under  the  guidance  of  most  competent  private  tutors. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  entered  Christ's  College,  Cambridge;  and 
for  seven  years  he  carried  on  his  academic  training  with  the  earnest 
purpose  which  appeared  in  all  his  enterprises,  taking  in  due  order 
both  bachelor's  and  master's  degrees.  His  poetic  output  during  these 
college  years  was  principally  in  Latin,  the  most  important  of  his  Eng- 
lish verse  being  the  Hymn  on  the  Nativity,  1629  ;  the  Lines  on  Shake- 
speare, 1630;  and  the  Sonnet  on  arriving  at  the  Age  of  Twenty -three, 
December,  1631. 

1632-1640.  —  Milton's  father  had  meanwhile  given  up  business 
and  retired  with  comfortable  means  of  subsistence  to  a  country  home 
in  Horton,  a  small  village  about  twenty  miles  from  London.  To  this 
home,  by  the  generous  consent  of  his  father,  the  young  college  grad- 
uate came,  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  supplementing  his  education 


JOHN  MILTON  65 

with  what  he  calls  "  a  period  of  absolute  leisure  "  —  in  reality  a  rigor- 
ous course  in  Greek  and  Latin  literature,  and  a  cultivation  of  the 
poetic  talents  with  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  endowed.  To  us  the 
residence  at  Horton  is  particularly  memorable,  since  it  was  during 
these  quiet  years  that  Milton  wrote  the  finest  of  his  minor  poems, 
among  them  V Allegro,  II  Penseroso,  Cotnus,  and  Lycidas.  After 
nearly  six  years  thus  spent  at  Horton,  the  poet  made  a  journey  to 
Italy,  where  he  passed  about  a  year  and  a  half  in  study  and  travel. 
Though  he  wrote  little  during  this  time,  he  had  already  begun  to 
plan  for  some  great  work  such  as  was  realized  in  the  epics  of  his  old 
age.  He  was  preparing  to  extend  his  travels  into  Greece,  when 
rumors  of  approaching  civil  strife  caused  him  in  1639  to  return  home. 
About  this  time,  possibly  as  a  means  of  self-support,  he  opened  a 
boys'  school  in  London. 

1640-1660.  —  This  period  we  may  dismiss  briefly,  since  Milton's 
poetic  production  during  these  years  consists  of  but  a  few  sonnets, 
some  two  hundred  lines  in  all.  Of  sonnets  he  wrote  all  together  twenty- 
three  :  two  in  Cambridge,  five  during  his  journey  in  Italy  (in  ItaHan), 
and  sixteen  of  varying  degrees  of  excellence  between  1642  and  1658. 
His  literary  work  during  these  years  consisted  almost  entirely  of  prose 
pamphlets  on  social  and  political  questions  of  the  day.  Among  the 
more  notable  of  these  were  the  Areopagitica  —  a  plea  for  the  freedom 
of  the  press  —  the  Tractate  on  Education,  the  Tenure  of  Kings  and 
Magistrates,  and  his  Defense  for  the  English  People.  Much  of  his 
work  is  violent  and  bitter  in  tone,  and  much,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
sincerely  and  nobly  eloquent.  In  1643,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  he 
had  married  a  certain  Mary  Powell,  —  a  union  which  proved  unhappy. 
In  1649  he  was  made  Latin  secretary  to  Cromwell,  a  position  which 
he  held  for  three  years,  when  through  overwork  he  became  totally 
blind.  However,  he  continued  in  his  office  until  after  the  death  of 
Cromwell  in  1658,  although  his  part  in  Commonwealth  affairs  during 
these  later  years  was  probably  not  important. 

1660-1674.  —  On  the  Restoration,  in  1660,  Milton  was  first  in 
hiding,  and  then  for  a  time  in  custody;  but,  despite  his  connection 
with  the  politics  of  the  Commonwealth,  he  was  included  in  the  general 
pardon  issued  by  King  Charles  II.  The  blind  poet,  now  fifty- two 
years  of  age,  turned  his  back  on  the  new  world  that  came  in  with  the 
Restoration,  and  calmly  set  himself  to  work  toward  the  completion 
of  an  epic.  Paradise  Lost.  This  was  finished  in  1665  and  published 
two  years  later.  Paradise  Lost,  "  whose  style,"  as  Stopford  Brooke 
remarks,  "  is  the  greatest  in  the  whole  range  of  English  poetry," 


66  THE  SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY 

could  not  have  been  produced  in  the  early  Horton  period,  or  have 
been  finished  in  the  stormy  years  that  followed.  It  is  the  suitable 
outgrowth  of  the  period  of  calm  upon  which  its  writer  had  now 
entered.  Following  Paradise  Lost,  in  167 1,  Paradise  Regained 
and  Samson  Agonistes  were  published.  Three  years  later,  in  1674, 
the  poet  died,  "  old  and  blind  and  fallen  on  evil  days,"  yet ''  with  his 
Titanic  proportions  and  independent  loneliness,  the  most  impressive 
figure  in  English  literature." 

L' ALLEGRO 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes  and  shrieks  and  sights  unholy  ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell,  5 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell.  10 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 

With  two  sister  Graces  more,        "  15 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair,- 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee  25 

Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles. 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles. 


LALLEGRO  67 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go. 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee  35 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
.  In  unreproved  pleasures  free :  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow,  45 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 
Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin,  50 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  55 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen. 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state,  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe,  6s 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 


68  MILTON 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorne  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 

Whilst  the_iandscape  round  it  measures :  70 

Russet  lawns  and  fallows  grey, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied,  .75 

Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide ; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes.  80 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 

Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes,  85 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phyllis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead,  ^ 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight. 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid  95 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale. 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said ; 

And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led, 


90 


VALLEGRO  69 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat  105 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend,  no 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,  115 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then. 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men. 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 

In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold,  120 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  j2- 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 

With  mask  and  antique  pageantry ; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child. 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  13s 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 

Married  to  immortal  verse. 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning. 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running. 


70  MILTON 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head  145 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  ! 
How  little  you  bested. 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy  ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue  ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea  nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  : 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 


IL  PENSEROSO  7 1 

His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign  25 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  35 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet,  45 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet. 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing : 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ;  s© 

But  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along,  5S 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 


72  MILTON 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft,  the  woods  among 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  6s 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,  70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore,  75 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit. 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour,  85 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground. 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent  9S 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line,  ^ 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  icso 


IL  PENSEROSO  73 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin  !  that  thy  power 

Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  105 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ; 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  no 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ;  115 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 

Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung. 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 

Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 

Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 

But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves.  13^ 

And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me.  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  13s 

Where  the  rude  ax  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 


74  MILTON 

There,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  concert  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid ;  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  ,  155 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antique,  pillars  massy  proof. 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full- voiced  choir  below. 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies,  165 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give,  17s 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


LYCIDAS  75 

LYCIDAS 

In  this  Monody  the  Author  bewails  a  learned  Friend,  unfortunately  drowned 
in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas,  1637 ;  and  by  occasion  foretells  the 
ruin  of  our  corrupted  Clergy,  then  in  their  height. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year.  5 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew  lo 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 

Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well  15 

That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse ; 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn,  20 

And,  as  he  passes,  turn 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self -same  hill. 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  riU ; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared  25 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright  30 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute. 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute. 


45 


76  MILTON 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 

From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ;  35 

And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown,  40 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint- worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep         50 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream.  55 

Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream 

'Had  ye  been  there,'  for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,  60 

When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade,  65 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise  70 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 


LYCIDAS  77 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears,  75 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "  But  not  the  praise," 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears : 

J^Fame  is  no  plant  thaLgTQws^njnortal  soil, 

NoFlrTthe^gtistenng  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies ;  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored  flood,  85 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea, 

That  came  in  Neptune's  plea.  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ;  95 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge  105 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
"  Ah  !  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  ''  my  dearest  pledge  ?  " 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 


78  MILTON 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  no 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold  !  ns 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 

Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least  120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?    What  need  they  ?    They  are  sped ; 

And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,  125 

But,  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said ; 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door  130 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus ;  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues.  •  135 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks. 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers,  140 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow- toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head,  - 


LYCIDAS  79 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears,  150 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise, 

Ay  me  1  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled ;  15s 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied. 

Sleep 'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old,  160 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold : 

Look  homeward.  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth; 

And  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more,  165 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore^^  170 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky^ 

So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 

Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves. 

Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves,  17s 

And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 

There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 

In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  180 

And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 

Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 

Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore. 

In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 

To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood.  185 


8o  MILTON 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills,  xgo 

And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

PARADISE  LOST 

{Selections) 
Book  I 

Man's  disobedience,  and  Ihe  loss  thereupon  of  Paradise,  wherein  he  was  placed. 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 

Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 

Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe, 

With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 

Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat,  s 

Sing,  Heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 

Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 

That  shepherd  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed 

In  the  beginning  how  the  Heavens  and  Earth 

Rose  out  of  Chaos :  or,  if  Sion  hill  lo 

Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that  flowed 

Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 

Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song. 

That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 

Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues  15 

Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 

And  chiefly  Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 

Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure. 

Instruct  me,  for  Thou  know'st ;  Thou  from  the  first 

Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  outspread,  20 

Dove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  Abyss, 

And  mad'st  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 

Illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support ;  0 


PARADISE  LOST  8l 

That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 

I  may  assert  Eternal  Providence,  25 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

The  cause  of  Man's  fall,  Satan,  had  previously  revolted  from  God;  him  and  all  his  legions  of 
mgds  God  had  driven  out  of  Heaven  into  the  great  deep. 

Him  the  Almighty  Power  44 

Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal  sky, 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition ;  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire. 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 

Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and  night     50 
To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf. 
Confounded,  though  immortal.     But  his  doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath ;  for  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain  55 

Torments  him ;  round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes, 
That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride  and  steadfast  hate. 
At  once,  as  far  as  Angels  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild :  60 

A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed ;  yet  from  those  flames 
No  light ;  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 
Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace  65 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 
That  comes  to  all,  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 
With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 
Such  place  Eternal  Justice  had  prepared  70 

For  those  rebellious. 

Satan  and  Beelzebub,  lying  on  the  burning  lake,  confer  of  their  miserable  fall.     They  end  their 
speech. 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate,  192 

With  head  uplift  above^'the  wave,  and  eyes 


82  MILTON 

That  sparkling  blazed ;  his  other  parts  besides, 

Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large,  195 

Lay  floating  many  a  rood,  in  bulk  as  huge 

As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous  size, 

Titanian,  or  Earth-born,  that  warred  on  Jove, 

Briareos  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 

By  ancient  Tarsus  held,  or  that  sea-beast  200 

Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 

Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean-stream. 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool  221 

His  mighty. stature ;  on  each  hand  the  flames 
Driven  backward  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and,  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  i'  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight  225 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air, 
That  felt  unusual  weight ;  till  on  dry  land 
He  lights  —  if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire. 

"  Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime,'*  242 

Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  "  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  Heaven  ?  this  mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light  ?     Be  it  so,  since  he  245 

Who  now  is  sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shah  be  right :  farthest  from  him  is  best. 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.     Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  forever  dwells  !    Hail,  horrors  !  hail,  250 

Infernal  world  !  and  thou,  profoundest  Hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor,  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time.     - 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven.  255 

What  matter  where,  if  I  be  stiU  the  same. 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater  ?    Here  at  least 


PARADISE  LOST  83 

We  shall  be  free ;  the  Almighty  hath  not  built 

Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence  :  260 

Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and,  in  my  choice, 

To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  Hell : 

Better  to  reign  in  Hell,  than  serve  in  Heaven. 

Beelzebub  counsels  Satan  to  arouse  his  legions  who  lie  confounded  on  the  burning  lake. 

He  scarce  had  ceased  when  the  superior  Fiend  283 

Was  moving  toward  the  shore ;  his  ponderous  shield, 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round,  285 

Behind  him  cast.     The  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole,  ' 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands,  290 

Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear  —  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammiral,  were  but  a  wand  — 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps  aos 

Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 
On  Heaven's  azure ;  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire. 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called  300 

His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranced. 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades 
High  over-arched  embower ;  or  scattered  sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed  305 

Hath  vexed  the  Red  Sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'erthrew 
Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry. 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcases  310 

And  broken  chariot-wheels :  so  thick  bestrewn, 
Abject  and  lost,  lay  these,  covering  the  flood. 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 


84  MILTON 

At  the  lost  archangel's  call  the  legions  rise;  theirnumber ,  their  array  of  battle,  and  their  leaden 
are  described;  Satan  reviews  the  vmltitude. 

He  through  the  armed  files  567 

Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion  views  —  their  order  due, 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods ;  570 

Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his  heart 
Distends  with  pride,  and  hardening  in  his  strength 
Glories ;  for  never,  since  created  man. 
Met  such  embodied  force  as,  named  with  these, 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry  575 

Warred  on  by  cranes :  though  all  the  giant  brood 
Of  Phlegra  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 
Mixed  with  auxiliar  gods ;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son,  580 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights ; 
And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel. 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban, 
Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond ; 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore  585 

When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabbia.     Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 
Their  dread  commander.     He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,  590 

Stood  like  a  tower ;  his  form  had  yet  not  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  Archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured :  as  when  the  sun  new-risen 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air  595 

Shorn  of  his  beams,  or  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  Archangel ;  but  his  face  600 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 


PARADISE  LOST  85 

Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge. 

Satan's  address  to  the  host. 

"  O  myriads  of  immortal  Spirits  !    O  Powers  622 

Matchless,  but  with  the  Almighty !  and  that  strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  the  event  was  dire. 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change,  625 

Hateful  to  utter.     But  what  power  of  mind. 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 
Of  knowledge  past  or  present,  could  have  feared 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  repulse  ?  630 

For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss. 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  Heaven,  shall  fail  to  reascend, 
Self -raised,  and  repossess  their  native  seat  ? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  Heaven,  6$$ 

If  counsels  different,  or  dangers  shunned 
By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.     But  he  who  reigns 
Monarch  in  Heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  his  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute, 
Consent  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state  '  640 

Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  concealed ; 
Which  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought  our  fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know  our  own, 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war  provoked.    Our  better  part  remains  645 

To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile. 
What  force  effected  not ;  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  overcomes 
By  force  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  worlds ;  whereof  so  rife  650 

There  went  a  fame  in  Heaven  that  he  erelong 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favor  equal  to  the  Sons  of  Heaven. 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps  655 


86  MILTON 

Our  first  eruption  —  thither,  or  elsewhere ; 

For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 

Celestial  Spirits  in  bondage,  nor  the  Abyss 

Long  under  darkness  cover.     But  these  thoughts 

Full  counsel  must  mature.     Peace  is  despaired,  660 

For  who  can  think  submission  ?    War,  then,  war 

Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved." 

He  spake ;  and,  to  confirm  his  words,  out-flew 

Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thighs 

Of  mighty  Cherubim ;  the  sudden  blaze  665 

Far  round  illumined  Hell.     Highly  they  raged 

Against  the  Highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped  arms 

Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of  war, 

Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  Heaven. 

Pandemonium,  the  Palace  of  Satan. 

Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge  710 

Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 

Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet  — 

Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 

Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 

With  golden  architrave ;  nor  did  there  want  715 

Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy  sculptures  graven : 

The  roof  was  fretted  gold.     Not  Babylon, 

Nor  great  Alcairo,  such  magnificence 

EquaUed  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 

Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat  720 

Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assjn^ia  strove 

In  wealth  and  luxury.     The  ascending  pile 

Stood  fixed  her  stately  height,  and  straight  the  doors, 

Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 

Within,  her  ample  spaces  o'er  the  smooth  72s 

And  level  pavement :  from  the  arched  roof, 

Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 

Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 

With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 

As  from  a  sky.     ... 


SONNETS  87 

But  far  within,  792 

And  in  their  own  dimensions  like  themselves, 
The  great  Seraphic  Lords  and  Cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat,  795 

A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats, 
Frequent  and  full.     After  short  silence  then. 
And  summons  read,  the  great  consult  began. 

The  Throne  of  Satan. 
(From  Book  II) 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 

Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 

Or  where  the  gorgeous  East,  with  richest  hand. 

Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 

Satan  exalted  sat,  by  merit  raised  S 

To  that  bad  eminence ;  and,  from  despair 

Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 

Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 

Vain  war  with  Heaven. 

SONNETS 

n 

On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-three 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three  and  twentieth  year  ! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth  5 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near ; 

And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear. 

That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 
Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 

It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even  10 

To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven ; 

All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 

As  ever  in  my  great  Task- Master's  eye. 


88  MILTON 

XVI 

To  THE  Lord  General  Cromwell,  May,  1652 

ON   THE  proposals   OF   CERTAIN  MESTISTERS   AT   THE   COMMITTEE 
FOR  PROPAGATION   OF   THE   GOSPEL 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  that  through  a  cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude. 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud  s 

Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pursued. 
While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  imbrued, 
And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 

And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath :  yet  much  remains 

To  conquer  still ;  peace  hath  her  victories  10 

No  less  renowned  than  war :  new  foes  arise. 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains. 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their  maw. 

XIX 

On  His  Blindness 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present  5 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide, 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?  " 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who  best  10 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.     His  state 

Is  kingly :  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


THE  AGE  OF   THE  RESTORATION  89 


2.   THE  AGE  OF  THE   RESTORATION 

The  year  1660  i3  an  important  date  in  English  history  and  litera- 
ture. Cromwell  was  dead,  Puritanism  had  lost  its  political  ascend- 
ency, the  Stuarts  had  been  reseated  upon  the  throne,  and  with  the 
cessation  of  the  internecine  struggle  for  power  a  new  and  modem 
England  had  sprung  into  life.  In  many  ways  it  was  a  strong  and 
self-reliant  England  that  now  arose.  Science  and  industry  took 
vast  strides.  "  Reason  "  and  "  intellect  "  were  hailed  as  watchwords 
of  the  coming  time.  Men  centred  their  attention  on  the  world  of 
actual  conditions  rather  than  on  that  of  emotional  ideals  and  disputed 
rights.  Xl^ough  Englishmen  of  thf  mass  treasured  freedom  and 
exalted  self-reliance,  mdividuality  of  thought  and  action  gave  place 
to~atl(Jbii(^fui  CunfOimity^atFSxe^and  generally  approved  standards.  ■■'  *^ 
Though  the  Puritan  Teaven  still  worked  in  the  lump,  and  always'^ will 
work,  the  people  as  a  whole  frankly  enjoyed  life,  and  many  turned  to 
pleasures  which  contrasted  oddly  with  the  "  otherworldliness  "  of 
the  Puritan  age.  In  the  circles  of  court  and  of  London  sociAy  the 
temperance  and  restraint  of  the  earlier  time  were  only  too  gladly 
flung  to  the  winds.  The  moral  degradation  of  the  king  and  his  fol- 
lowers is  almost  beyond  belief.  In  their  estimation,  to  be  honest 
and  virtuous  was  to  be  held  a  Puritan ;  and  the  Puritans  were  objects 
<5f  imsparing  ridicule  and  contempt.  The  effect  of  this  social  revolu- 
tion upon  literature  may  be  easily  imagined ;  it  was  at  once  apparent 
in  a  debased  moral  tone,  especially  of  the  drama.  The  theatr€s-w«re..„„_ 
again  thrown -x)peii,  and  a  school  of  dramatists  arose,  vigorous  and 
witty  in  style,  yet  imparalleled  in  deliberate  indecency. 

It  must  not  be  inferred,  however,  that  this  debasement  of  moral 
tone  was  the  only  effect  of  the  Restoration  upon  literature.  It  was 
not,  indeed,  the  principal  effect.  Charles  II,  on  returning  to  his 
country,  brought  with  him  from  his  exile  in  France  a  taste  for  the 
literary  style  and  literary  models  of  the  French.  Literature  in  France, 
at  this  time  the  most  brilliant  on  the  continent,  attached  great  im- 
portance to  form,  and  was  elaborating  to  a  remarkable  degree  the 
theory  an^hatTOTcriticism .  The  poetry  of  England,  save  in  the  hands 
of  Milton  and  a  very  few  others,  had,  as  we  have  remarked,  become 
extravagant  and  fantastic  in  the  extreme.  Reform  was  evidently 
necessary ;  the  new  conditions  made  reform  possible.  Finish  and 
neatness  of  expression  were  now  desired;  and  the  French  masters 
of  the  critical  art  were  busy  devising  rules  by  which  this  finish  and 
neatness,  this  exactness  and  lucidity,  might  be  obtained.    All  this 


90  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

was  very  congenial  to  the  newly  awakened  critical  intellectuality  of 
England;  and  the  result  was  that  the  Italian  influence,  which  had 
been  stimulating  English  poetry  for  over  two  centuries  and  a  half, 
now  gave  way  to  a  century  of  influence  on  the  part  of  France.  We 
shall  find  poetry,  during  the  period  of  French  influence,  correct  but 
cold,  intellectual  rather  than  emotional,  satiric  and  didactic  rather 
than  lyric  and  passionate.  Towering  above  the  group  of  lesser  writers 
who  devoted  themselves  to  this  new  fashion  of  literature,  stands  a 
splendidly  intellectual  representative  of  the  spirit  of  his  time:  the 
poet,  dramatist,  and  critic,  john  dryden. 


JOHN  DRYDEN   (1631-1700) 

"  I  confess,"  says  Dryden,  "  that  my  chief  endeavors  are  to  de- 
light the  age  in  which  I  live.  If  the  humor  of  this  be  for  low  comedy, 
small  accidents,  and  raillery,  I  will  force  my  genius  to  obey  it."  This 
statenjent  explains  why  John  Dryden,  briUiant  thinker  and  master- 
critic  though  he  was,  cannot  be  placed  with  the  seers  of  English 
poetry,  certainly  not  with  that  highest  group  of  those  who  are  seers 
and  creators  in  one.  He  was  incomparably  the  most  distinguished 
author  of  his  age ;  but  it  was  not  an  imaginative  age,  —  therefore 
not  an  age  favorable  to  the  truest  and  most  lasting  kind  of  poetry. 
It  was  an  age  of  criticism  rather  than  of  creation,  and  this  poet  re- 
flects the  spirit  of  his  times  in  being  a  great  critic  rather  than  a  great 
literary  artist.  To  usher  in  a  vital  alteration  of  literary  style  was  his 
mission.  He  aimed  at  virile  thinking,  subtle  perhaps,  but  heavy 
never  nor  often  profound,  at  accurate  form,  elegant  diction,  polished 
style,  perfect  versification  —  and  in  all  these  respects  he  succeeded 
admirably.  The  heroic  cotplet,  which  he  used  almost  exclusively 
in  his  poems,  was  well  suited  to  their  aim  and  spirit.  He  was  a 
master  of  satire  and  an  adept  in  the  sword-play  of  wit.  But  he  lacks 
sympathetic  and  interpretative  imagination,  has  but  little  love  for 
nature,  distrusts  tenderness  and  emotion,  and  is  sadly  wanting  in 
the  stabihty  which  comes  from  fixed  moral  principles  and  high  re- 
solves. ^Some  of  his  dramas  display  creative  power,  but  not  of  the 
first  quality)  In  prose  he  shines,  and  in  his  historical  and  critical 
judgments  of  literature  he  stands  forth  as  the  most  commanding 
literary  personality  of  his  age. 

1631-1663.  —  Dryden  was  bom  in  Northamptonshire,  of  good 
family,  and  was  educated,  first  at  Westminster  School,  and  after- 


JOHN  DRYDEN  91 

ward  in  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Upon  his  graduation,  in  1657, 
he  went  to  London,  and  the  next  year  produced  some  Heroic  Stanzas 
on  the  Death  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  Two  years  later,  however,  in  com- 
mon with  the  great  mass  of  his  countrymen,  his  sentiments  under- 
went a  change ;  and  on  the  restoration  of  Charles  II  he  wrote  a  poem 
to  celebrate  that  event. 

1665-1681.  —  In  1663  he  married,  and,  as  a  means  of  livelihood, 
began  to  write  for  the  stage.  (Although  his  twenty-eight  plays  ex- 
hibit the  vices  that  characterize  the  Restoration  drama,  their  merit 
was  at  least  sufficient  to  procure  for  him  a  reputation  as  the  first 
dramatist  of  his  time.  The  drama,  however,  was  not  completely 
suited  to  Dry  den's  cast  of  mind.  Much  more  vital  than  his  plays 
were  the  critical  essays  with  which  some  of  them  were  prefaced. 
Here  the  author  has  not  only  assisted  in  laying  the  foundation  for 
modern  English  criticism,  but  has  also  elaborated  a  style  which  is  far 
more  Uke  modern  prose  than  is  that  of  any  writer  before  his  time.  In 
1670  he  was  made  Poet  Laureate,  with  a  salary  of  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year.     For  the  next  ten  years  he  wrote  little  beside  his  plays. 

1681-1689.  —  In  1681,  at  fifty  years  of  age,  the  poet  entered  upon 
his  most  important  sphere  of  literary  activity:  he  began  to  write 
satires.  Of  these  splendid  creations  the  first  was  Absalom  and  Achit- 
ophel,  soon  followed  by  The  Medal,  MacFlecknoe,  and  others ;  in  all 
of  them  the  author  shows  his  superiority  not  only  to  the  satirists 
of  his  own  time,  but  of  most  times.  During  this  period  he  adopted 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  and,  in  1687,  published  the  Hind  and  the 
Panther.  In  this  a  plea  is  made  for  the  Church  of  Rome,  which  is 
portrayed  as  a  milk-white  hind.  The  reasoning  is  acute,  and  the 
verse  musical. 

1689-1700.  —  In  1689,  on  the  accession  of  William  and  Mary,  the 
poet,  as  a  Catholic  loyalist,  lost  his  laureateship  and  other  offices,  and 
was  again  obliged  to  seek  an  income  from  his  pen.  He  turned  to  the 
drama  once  more,  but  without  success.  His  next  venture  was  an 
excellent  verse  translation  of  Virgil,  which  he  finished  in  1697.  Finally, 
in  1699,  he  finished  his  so-called  Fables,  in  which  the  stories  of  Chaucer 
and  others  were  paraphrased.  One  year  later  he  died  and  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  beside  the  tomb  of  Chaucer.  His  more  valu- 
able work  as  poet  had  all  been  done  within  the  last  nineteen  years  of 
his  life.  No  other  English  poet,  save  Cowper,  matured  so  late  as  he, 
and  very  few  have  ruled  supreme  as  literary  dictators  of  their  time. 

If  we  were  to  select  for  reading  the  most  typical  of  Dryden's  non- 
dramatic  poems,  it  would  be,  no  doubt,  one  of  the  satires.     The 


92  DRY DEN 

Absalom  and  Achitophel  will  liberally  repay  the  student  who  is  able 
to  give  mature  attention  to  the  history  involved.  Since  the  satires, 
however,  very  largely  lose  their  flavor  unless  the  reader  is  acquainted 
with  the  men  and  motives  that  inspired  them,  we  have  passed  over 
these,  and  selected  instead  one  of  the  two  odes  upon  which  rests  Dry- 
Fame  as  a  lyricj;jfi>et..  It  will,  perhapsT^UustriCte'TDetter  than 
any  omSi.  kind  Uf  {5uem  the  author's  po^er^fenguage  and  dexterity 
in  versification.  ~~        ^ 


ALEXANDER'S   FEAST; 

Or,  the  Power  of  Music 

A  Song  in  Honor  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day :  i6gy 


'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  £or  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son.  I 

Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne ;  s 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride,  to 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.  is 

Chorus 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.         ' 


ALEXANDER'S   FEAST  93 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high  to 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre ; 

The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky,  ^ 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove,  25 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed ;  30 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast. 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around ;  35 

A  present  deity,  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god. 

Affects  to  nod,  40 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

Chorus 

With  ravished  ears  * 

The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god. 

Affects  to  nod,  45 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
T)ie  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums ;  50 


94  DRY DEN 

Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face ; 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ;  he  comes,  he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ;  55 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure ; 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  60 

Chorus 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure ; 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  65 


Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
Tne  master  saw  the  madness  nse, 

His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ;  70 

And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse ; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good,  75 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ;  - 

Deserted  at  his  utmost  need  80 

•  By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  95 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul  85 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Chorus 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various,  turns  of  chance  below ;  go 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree : 

'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move,  95 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble ;  100 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying ; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning. 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying : 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee,  105 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
//The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 

Gazed  on  the  fair  no 

Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed' and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again :    )\ 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed. 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast.  ns 


0  DRY DEN 

Chorus 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  :  120 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed. 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

6 
Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ;  -^ 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder,  .  125 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder.    • 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around.  •  130 

"  Revenge,  revenge  !  "  Timotheus  cries ; 
"  See  the  Furies  arise ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  !  135 

Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain :  ',  140 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  hi^, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods."  14s 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy.  150 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  97 

Chorus 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

7 
Thus,  long  ago,  iss 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire.  160 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,  165 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  170 

Chorus 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,  175 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown : 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  180 


CHAPTER  VT 

THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

I.  THE   CLASSICAL  OR  CONVENTIONAL  SCHOOL 

The  intellectual  and  artificial  school  of  poetry  which,  as  we  have 
said,  arose  not  long  after  the  accession  of  Charles  II,  continued  with- 
out any  considerable  change  through  the  greater  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Taste  was  still  largely  governed  by  precepts  borrowed  from 
France,  which,  in  its  turn,  pretended  to  be  governed  by  the  practice 
of  the  masters  of  Greece  and  Rome.  But  the  French  cultivated  few 
of  the  ancient  masters,  save  Horace  and  Juvenal,  and  these  they  fol- 
lowed at  a  very  decided  distance.  Poetry  in  England  remained  chiefly 
satirical,  didactic,  pseudo-philosophical.  In  their  desire  to  avoid  the 
extravagances  of  the  later  Elizabethans,  writers  carefully  avoided  not 
only  the  recklessly  imaginative  manner  and  the  free  and  easy  blank- 
verse  form  but  even  the  subjects  of  the  earlier  poetry.  Dramas  and 
lyrics  expressing  the  passions  of  man,  his  conduct  in  the  moment  of 
dramatic  activity,  his  yearning  for  adventure  and  his  love  of  nkture, 
were  discarded  for  critical  essays  in  verse  upon  the  institutions  "of 
man  and  the  conventions  of  society,  or  stanzas  of  rhetorical  diction 
and  ingenious  wit  tinkling  in  the  breeze  of  artificial  emotion.  The 
attempt  of  any  poet  to  overleap  the  boundaries  within  which  the  set 
rules  of  the  art  had  confined  him  was  regarded  as  proof  that  he  was 
really  no  poet.  Nothing  could  be  beautiful  if  irregularly  beautiful. 
Hence  individuality  was  repressed  and  writers  retained  scarcely  any 
other  mark  of  personal  distinction  than  the  degree  in  which  wit  was 
keen  or  style  laboriously  elegant. 

The  uniformity  of  style  in  the  writers  of  this  school  is  accentuated 
by  the  inflexibility  of  the  verse  form  which  had  been  adopted  and 
which  held  almost  complete  sway  in  English  poetry  for  over  a  hun- 
dred years.  This  was  the  heroic  couplet,  consisting  of  two  iambic 
pentameter  lines  connected  by  rh5ane  —  a  form  of  which  Macaulay 
says  in  his  essay  on  Addison :  ''  The  art  of  arranging  words  in  this 
measure,  so  that  the  lines  may  flow  smoothly,  that  the  accents  may 
fall  correctly,  that  the  rhymes  may  strike  the  ear  strongly,  and  that 

98 


THE  CLASSICAL  OR  CONVENTIONAL  SCHOOL  99 

there  may  be  a  pause  at  the  end  of  every  distich,  is  an  art  as  mechanical 
as  that  of  mending  a  kettle  or  shoeing  a  horse,  and  may  be  learned 
by  any  human  being  who  has  sense  enough  to  learn  anything.  But, 
like  other  mechanical  arts,  it  was  gradually  improved  by  means  of 
many  experiments  and  many  failures.  It  was  reserved  for  Pope  to 
discover  the  trick,  to  make  himself  complete  master  of  it,  and  to  teach 
it  to  everybody  else."  Though  Macaulay  in  this  passage  shows  not 
a  little  of  his  characteristic  dogmatism  and  underestimates  the  skill 
requisite  to  write  good  heroic  couplets,  at  least  two  of  his  statements 
are  unquestionably  true:  first,  that  Alexander  pope  made  himself 
absolute  master  of  this  form  of  verse ;  and  second,  that  many  of  his 
contemporaries  imitated  him.  These  two  facts  explain  Pope's  leader- 
ship of  what  a  distinguished  critic  designates  as  the  "  artificial-con- 
ventional school  of  verse,"  with  its  ideals  of  emotional  reserve  and 
mental  equipoise,  its  methods  of  formal  correctness,  point,  and  finish. 
The  heroic  couplet  in  which  they  wrote  was,  as  we  have  already  no- 
ticed, an  old  and  common  English  measure.  But  in  Chaucer  and  other 
p)oets  who  had  early  used  the  couplet,  as  well  as  in  Keats  and  Swin- 
burne and  other  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century  who  have  since  em- 
ployed it,  the  thought  nms  on  connectedly  from  line  to  line  and  coup- 
let to  couplet,  stopping  to  take  breath  somewhere  within  a  line,  if  it 
pleases,  in  a  manner  that  would  not  have  been  tolerated  by  the  rule 
of  the  end-stopped  couplet  and  unit  line  used  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury (see  introduction).  The  influence  of  Dryden's  personality 
had  been  such  as  to  popularize  even  rugged  and  vigorous  couplets  as 
a  vehicle  of  expression.  When  Pope  met  the  demands  of  his  age,  not 
only  with  couplets  perfect  in  their  sprightHness  and  polish,  but  also 
with  phraseology  unparalleled  for  conciseness  and  lucidity,  he  rose 
at  once  to  a  position  of  acknowledged  leadership  among  the  poets  of 
his  time. 

The  influences  of  this  dictatorship  were  both  bad  and  good.  On 
the  one  hand,  scores  of  writers  who,  as  Macaulay  says,  "  never  blun- 
dered on  one  happy  thought  or  expression,"  in  their  attempt  to  fol- 
low the  lead  of  Pope,  inflicted  upon  the  world  "  reams  of  couplets  " 
entirely  mechanical  and  artificial,  and  utterly  devoid  of  poetry.  On 
the  other  hand,  subsequent  English  poetry  could  ill  afford  to  dispense 
with  the  characteristics  indirectly  derived  from  the  manner  of  Pope 
and  his  disciples.  These  wTiters  of  the  "  Classical  school  "  labored 
from  the  first  for  a  neatness,  condensation,  and  perfection  of  style, 
such  as  had  hitherto  been  strangers  to  English  verse,  but  which,  once 
)  attained,  have  never  since  been  wholly  disregarded.     No  poet  to-day 


lOO  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

could  write  in  the  untrained,  formless  manner  that  marks,  and  fre- 
quently mars,  some  very  excellent  early  EHzabethans.  The  influence 
of  Pope's  school  remained  long  after  the  school  had  passed  away. 
But,  as  we  shall  see,  neither  the  authority  of  Pope  in  the  first  half 
of  the  century,  nor  that  of  his  great  disciple,  dr.  johnson  (i  709-1 784), 
in  the  latter  half.  Was  sufficient  to  prevent  a  gradual  reactionary 
movement  which,  before  the  century  was  over,  should  again  usher 
in  the  poetic  ideals  of  Chaucer,  Milton,  and  Spenser  in  place  of  those 
of  Dryden,  Johnson,  and  Pope. 

ALEXANDER   POPE   (1688-1744) 

If  Wordsworth  was  right  in  saying  that  "  all  good  poetry  is  the 
spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feeling,"  Alexander  Pope  was  cer- 
tainly not  a  good  poet.  Indeed,  he  fails  to  meet  almost  any  standard 
which  the  present  day  would  advance  as  a  test  of  what  is  in  spirit 
poetic.  Like  his  master  Dryden,  he  cared  nothing  for  nature,  and 
gave  it  scant  attention  in  his  verse.  Like  Dryden  also,  he  has  little 
emotion,  little  passion,  little  inspiration,  little  power  of  inspiring  others. 
He  is  rarely  inventive  or  strikingly  original ;  he  pretends  to  no  power 
of  imagination ;  he  does  not  often  aim  to  bring  a  lofty  message  to 
the  world.  He  is  the  poet  of  "  the  town,"  with  its  fashionable  and 
conventional  life  —  the  "  life  of  the  court  and  the  ballroom  " ;  the 
poet  of  biting  satire  and  caustic  criticism ;  the  poet  of  the  transitory 
and  fleeting.  Yet  the  time  has  been  when  Alexander  Pope  was  con- 
sidered the  greatest  of  English  poets  and  a  model  for  all  future  poetry. 

If  we  limit  our  view  of  poetry,  as  above,  to  its  content  only,  its  im- 
aginative thought  and  feeling,  we  cannot  understand  this  verdict  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  But  so  to  restrict  our  judgment  would  be 
manifestly  unjust,  for  poetry  resides  in  the  form  as  well  as  in  the 
content.  In  the  form  of  his  poetic  production  —  its  fitness,  finish, 
and  grace,  its  compactness  of  expression,  its  terseness  of  epigram,  its 
darting  wit  —  Pope  stands  almost  without  a  rival.  His  ideals  are 
absolute  correctness  and  rigid  self-criticism.  He  aims  to  express 
what  he  has  to  say  in  the  very  best  possible  form,  and  his  success  is 
absolute.  No  English  writer  except  Shakespeare  has  given  us  so 
many  oft-quoted  and  quotable  lines,  simply  because  no  one  else  has 
expressed  his  thoughts  so  compactly  or  so  well.  Indeed,  none  of  our 
poets  has  had  such  an  influence  in  shaping  a  literary  epoch  as  Pope 
had  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Though  the  critics  of  to-day  do  not 
accord  him  a  place  in  the  highest  order  of  poets,  they  rank  him,  like 


ALEXANDER  POPE     ;  ICI 

Dryden,  among  the  most  important  factors  in  the  development  of 
our  literature. 

1688-1712.  —  Pope  was  bom  in  London  in  1688.  His  education, 
since  his  father  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  was  first  under  the  tuition  of 
Catholic  priests;  after  the  age  of  twelve,  however,  under  his  own 
guidance.  When  a  mere  lad  he  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  poetry ; 
and,  aided  by  his  father's  criticism,  he  commenced  at  a  very  early  age 
to  write.  He  was  badly  deformed  and  sickly  all  his  life ;  whatever 
he  has  accomplished  marks,  therefore,  the  triumph  of  will  and  artis- 
tic ambition  in  a  Hfelong  conflict  with  disease.  His  first  published 
work  was  the  Pastorals.  These  appeared  when  he  was  twenty-one, 
and  were  followed  two  years  later  by  his  Essay  on  Criticism,  and  the 
first  cast,  in  two  cantos,  of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  The  poet's  success 
was  immediate  and  unquestioned. 

1712-1728.  —  In  1713  appeared  Windsor  Forest,  and  the  next  year 
the  enlarged  form  of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  now  ordinarily  read. 
Shortly  afterward  Pope  removed  from  B infield,  the  home  of  his  child- 
hood, to  Chiswick,  and  then  to  Twickenham,  towns  on  the  Thames, 
a  few  miles  west  of  London.  From  1715  to  1720  he  was  at  work  on 
a  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  The  result  has  been  characterized 
as  "  a  very  pretty  poem,  but  not  Homer."  Indeed,  Pope  had  little 
knowledge  of  the  Greek  language,  and  very  little  sympathy  with 
Homeric  spirit.  So,  although  the  translation  brought  him  money  and 
fame,  and  although  it  is  still  well  known,  it  is  nevertheless  a  very  poor 
medium  through  which  to  gain  acquaintance  with  the  greatest  of 
epic  poets.  In  1725  a  translation  of  the  Odyssey  appeared.  Three 
years  later,  when  he  was  forty  years  of  age,  the  poet  sent  out  from 
his  comfortable  retreat  of  Twickenham  the  Dunciad,  a  bitter  satire 
upon  the  minor  poets  and  critics  who  had  chanced  to  incur  his 
displeasure. 

1728--1744.  —  The  rest  of  his  life  was  spent  in  writing  a  series  of 
half-philosophical,  half-satirical  poems,  which,  though  they  may  fail 
in  value  when  considered  as  wholes,  are  certainly  unique  as  armories 
of  terse  and  trenchant  lines.  Among  these  poems  are  the  famous 
Essay  on  Man  (173  2-1 734)  and  the  noblest  of  his  poems,  The  Universal 
Prayer  (1738) ;  a  revision  and  enlargement  of  the  Dunciad  (1743) ; 
and  various  epistles,  satires,  and  miscellaneous  verses.  In  1744, 
just  after  his  fifty-sixth  birthday.  Pope  died.  His  friends  and  early 
admirers  had  nearly  all  preceded  him  to  the  grave,  or,  if  still  living, 
were  estranged  by  his  irritability,  his  jealousy  and  suspicion.  At  the 
time  of  his  death  his  keenness  and  his  vital  powers  were  clearly  on  the 


:<0-i  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

wane ;  disease  was  making  inroads  upon  his  feeble  body.    The  end, 
under  such  conditions,  was  probably  not  unwelcome. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  select  from  the  works  of  Pope  the  parts 
which  are  best  deserving  study.  The  epistles  and  satires  depend 
for  their  appreciation  upon  an  acquaintance  with  the  circmnstances 
that  called  them  forth.  The  Essay  on  Man,  despite  its  brilliant  lines 
and  passages,  appears  superficial  to  readers  of  to-day.  The  Rape 
of  the  Lock,  however,  requires  for  an  enjoyment  of  its  sparkling  and 
fanciful  wit  no  unreasonably  minute  acquaintance  with  the  person- 
alities or  scenes  involved ;  and  since  it  is  probably  the  most  highly 
finished  of  Pope's  purely  fanciful  creations  and  one  of  the  finest  mock- 
heroic  poems  ever  written,  we  have  selected  it.  To  insert  here  the 
whole  of  it  would  be  to  give  Pope  an  almost  imdue  importance.  To 
present  only  one  or  two  cantos,  on  the  other  hand,  would  be  merely 
to  spoil  a  delightful  story.  We  have,  therefore,  decided  to  reproduce 
the  poem  as  it  was  first  printed  in  Lintofs  Miscellany  (171 2),  —  the 
form  that  made  its  author  famous,  and  that  Addison  termed  "  merum 
sal  "  —  pure  wit.  When  Pope  proposed  to  enlarge  the  first  edition 
of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Addison  advised  against  the  suggestion, 
and  by  so  doing  turned  Pope  from  a  warm  friend  to  a  bitter  enemy, 
for  the  well-meant  advice  was  interpreted  as  proceeding  from  jealousy. 
The  enlargement  has  added,  to  be  sure,  several  clever  pictures,  and 
is  one  of  the  most  successful  revisions  ever  made  of  a  great  poem. 
Still,  many  wUl  be  found  to  agree  with  Addison  and  with  Mr.  Croker, 
a  well-known  critic  of  Pope,  who  says :  "  The  original  poem  tells  the 
actual  story  and  exhibits  a  picture  of  real  manners  with  so  much 
wit  and  poetry,  but  also  with  so  much  simplicity  and  clearness,  that 
I  can  well  imagine  that  Addison  might  be  alarmed  at  the  proposition 
of  introducing  sylphs  and  gnomes  into  a  scene  of  common  life  already 
so  admirably  described.  Even  now,  with  the  advantage  of  seeing 
all  the  briUiancy  with  which  Pope  has  worked  out  what  Addison  thought 
an  unforttmate  conception,  I  will  not  deny  that  such  is  the  charm  of 
truth  that  I  have  lately  read  the  first  sketch  with  more  interest  than 
its  more  fanciful  and  more  gorgeous  successor,  which  really  seems 
something  like  a  beauty  oppressed  with  the  weight  and  splendor  of 
her  ornaments." 

Indeed,  we  believe  that  this  shorter  form  of  the  poem  will  prove  in 
many  ways  more  suitable  to  the  needs  of  the  student  than  its  longer, 
more  difl&cult,  more  fantastic,  and  in  places  somewhat  wearisome 
revision.  One  must  remember,  however,  that  this  shorter  edition, 
though  furnishing  an  excellent  example  of  Pope  at  his  best,  is  not  what 


THE  RAPE  OF   THE  LOCK  103 

is  now  ordinarily  called  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  Should  the  student 
wish  to  study  the  whole  poem,  he  will  do  well  to  compare  this  earlier 
with  the  enlarged  form,  to  be  found  in  any  collection  of  its  author's 
works.  He  will  notice  that  three  or  four  Hnes  were  omitted  in  the 
revision ;  a  dozen  or  so  recast  and  considerably  changed ;  some  thirty 
or  forty  very  slightly  altered,  often  in  only  a  single  word ;  and  about 
four  hundred  and  sixty  added,  principally  in  the  introduction  of  such 
*'  machinery  "  as  the  Sylphs,  the  game  of  Ombre,  and  the  Cave  of 
Spleen.  These  changes  may  be  summarized  as  follows,  no  account 
being  made  of  merely  verbal  or  minor  changes :  — 


Find  edition 
Canto             No.oflinei 

Contains  of  the 
earlier  edition 

And  adds 

I  ....     148 

II  ....     142 

in  ....   178 

IV  ....     176 

V  ....    150 

Canto    I,  11.       .  1-18 

Canto    I,  U.      19-64 
Canto    I,  U.    65-142 
Canto  II,  11.  143-231 
Canto  n,  11.  232-334 

—  the  description  of  the  Sylphs  and 

of  Belinda's  toilet. 

—  the  plans  of  the  Sylphs. 

—  the  game  of  Ombre. 

—  the  Gnomes  and  the  Cave  of  Spleen. 

—  the  Speech  of  Clarissa.^ 

THE  RAPE  QF  THE  LOCK 
An  Heroi-comical  Poem 

[original  EDITION   OF    1712] 

Nolueram,  Belinda,  tuos  violare  capillos, 
Sed  juvat  hoc  prcecibus  me  tribuisse  tuis. 

—  Martial's  Epigrams:  Lib.  XII,  Ep.  84. 

CANTO   I 

What  dire  offense  from  amorous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  quarrels  rise  from  trivial  things, 

I  sing.     This  verse  to  C l,  Muse  !  is  due ; 

This,  even  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view ; 

Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise,  5 

If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  la3^s. 

1  First  introduced  into  the  quarto  edition  of  1717.  Canto  V,  of  the  edition  of 
1 7 14,  save  for  a  few  lines  relating  to  the  Sylphs,  was  practically  identical  with  the 
last  hvmdred  lines  of  the  first  edition.  The  final  edition,  as  it  now  stands,  contains 
seven  hundred  and  ninety-four  lines. 


I04  POPE 

Say  what  strange  motive,  Goddess  !  could  compel 
A  well-bred  Lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle  ? 
O  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ?  lo 

And  dwells  such  rage  in  softest  bosoms  then. 
And  lodge  such  daring  souls  in  little  men  ? 

Sol  through  white  curtains  did  his  beams  display. 
And  oped  those  eyes  which  brighter  shine  than  they ; 
Shock  just  had  given  himself  the  rousing  shake,  15 

And  nymphs  prepared  their  chocolate  to  take ; 
Thrice  the  wrought  slipper  knocked  against  the  ground. 
And  striking  watches  the  tenth  hour  resound. 
Belinda  rose,  and  midst  attending  dames. 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  Silver  Thames :  20 

A  train  of  well-dressed  youths  around  her  shone. 
And  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose,  25 

Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those. 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike.  30 

Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide ; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forgive  'em  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind,  2>s 

Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  her  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains. 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains.  40 

With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray. 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair.  '-^ 


THE  RAPE  OF   THE  LOCK  105 

Th'  adventurous  baron  the  bright* locks  admired;  45 

He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired.       • 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray ; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends, 
Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends.  50 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  heaven,  and  every  power  adored. 
But  chiefly  Love  —  to  Love  an  altar  built 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  the  sword-knot  Sylvia's  hands  had  sewn,  55 

With  Flavia's  busk  that  6ft  had  wrapped  his  own : 
A  fan,  a  garter,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves. 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire.  60 

Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize : 
The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his  prayer ; 
The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crowned  with  flowers,    65 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising  towers. 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame. 
Which  from  the  neighboring  Hampton  takes  its  name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home ;  70 

Here  thou,  great  Anna  !  whom  three  realms  obey. 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take  —  and  sometimes  tea. 

Hither  our  nymphs  and  heroes  did  resort. 
To  taste  a  while  the  pleasures  of  a  court : 
In  various  talk  the  cheerful  hours  they  passed,  75 

Of  who  was  bit,  or  who  capotted  last : 
This  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  that  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes ; 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies.  80 

Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 


Io6  POPE 

Now  when,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  stin  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray ; 
When  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign,  85 

And  wretches  hang  that  jury-men  may  dine ; 
When  merchants  from  th'  Exchange  return  in  peace, 
And  the  long  labors  of  the  toilet  cease, 
The  board's  with  cups  and  spoons,  alternate,  crowned, 
The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round ;  90' 

On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze ; 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide, 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide. 
At  once  they  gratify  their  smell  and  taste,  95 

While  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise. 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  lock  to  gain.  100 

Ah  cease,  rash  youth  !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late. 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate  ! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air. 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair  ! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  mind,  105 

How  soon  fit  instruments  of  ill  they  find  ! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case : 
So  ladies,  in  romance,  assist  their  knight. 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight.  no 

He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends ; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread. 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 
He  first  expands  the  glittering  forfex  wide  { ^  ns 

T'  inclose  the  lock,  now  joins  it  to  divide ; 
One  fatal  stroke  the  sacred  hair  does  sever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever  and  for  ever  ! 

The  living  fires  come  flashing  from  her  eyes. 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affrighted  skies.  120 


THE  RAPE  OF   THE  LOCK  107 

Not  louder  shrieks  by  dames  to  heaven  are  cast,     I 
When  husbands  die,  or  lapdogs  breathe  their  last ;  j 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from  high. 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie ! 

"  Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples  twine,"       125 
The  victor  cried ;  "  the  glorious  prize  is  mine  I 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair. 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read. 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed,  130 

While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  waxlights  in  bright  order  blaze. 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give. 
So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall  live  ! 
What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its  date,       135 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate  ! 
Steel  did  the  labor  of  the  gods  destroy. 
And  strike  to  dust  th'  aspiring  towers  of  Troy ; 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound, 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground.  140 

What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph  !  thy  hairs  should  feel 

The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel !  " 

CANTO  n 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppressed. 

And  secret  passions  labored  in  her  breast. 

Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive,  14s 

Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive, j 

Not  ardent  lover  robbed  of  all  his  bliss, 

Not  ancient  lady  when  refused  a  kiss. 

Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die. 

Not  Cynthia  when  her  manteau's  pinned  awry,  150 

E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair. 

As  thou,  sad  virgin  !  for  thy  ravished  hair. 

While  her  racked  soul  repose  and  peace  requires, 

The  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fires. 

"  O  wretched  maid  !  "  she  spread  her  hands,  and  cried,    155 

(And  Hampton's  echoes  "  Wretched  maid  !  "  replied)    ' 


io8  POPE 

''  Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 

Combs,  bodkins,  leads,  pomatums  to  prepare  ? 

For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound  ? 

For  this  torturing  irons  wreathed  around  ?  i6o 

Oh  had  the  youth  been  but  content  to  seize 

Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these  ! 

Gods  !  shall  the  ravisher  display  this  hair, 

While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare  ! 

Honor  forbid  !  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine  165 

Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 

Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 

Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 

Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast. 

And  all  your  honor  in  a  whisper  lost !  170 

How  shall  I,  then,  your  helpless  fame  defend  ? 

'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend  ! 

And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize. 

Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes. 

And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circling  rays,  17s 

On  that  rapacious  hand  for  ever  blaze  ? 

Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus  grow, 

And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow ; 

Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall. 

Men,  monkeys,  lapdogs,  parrots,  perish  all !  "       "  180 

She  said ;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs. 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs : 
Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain. 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane. 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking  face,  185 

He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the  case. 
And  thus  broke  out  —  "  My  lord  !  why,  what  the  devil ! 
Zounds  !  damn  the  lock  !  'fore  Gad,  you  must  be  civil ! 
Plague  on't !  'tis  past  a  jest  —  nay,  prithee,  pox  ! 
Give  her  the  hair  "  —  he  spoke,  and  rapped  his  box.        190 

"  It  grieves  me  much,"  replied  the  peer  again, 
"  Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in  vain ; 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair ; 


THE   RAPE  OF   THE   LOCK  lOQ 

Which  never  more  its  honors  shall  renew,  19s 

Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  once  it  grew) 

That,  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 

This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  for  ever  wear." 

He  spoke ;  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph  spread 

The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head.  200 

But  see  !  the  nymph  in  sorrow's  pomp  appears, 
Her  eyes  half-languishing,  half  drowned  in  tears ; 
Now  livid  pale  her  cheeks,  now  glowing  red. 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head. 
Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised ;  and  thus  she  said :  205 

"  For  ever  cursed  be  this  detested  day. 
Which  snatched  my  best,  my  favorite  curl  away  ! 
Happy  !  ah  ten  times  happy  had  I  been, 
If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen ! 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid,  210 

By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betrayed. 
Oh,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land, 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way. 
Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste  bohea  !  215 

There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from  mortal  eye. 
Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to  roam  ? 
Oh  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  prayers  at  home  ! 
'Twas  this  the  morning  omens  did  foretell ;  220 

Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch-box  fell ; 
The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind ; 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most  unkind  ! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  this  slighted  hair  ! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  e'en  thy  own  did  spare  :  225 

This,  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break. 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck ; 
The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone. 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  o^wn ; 
Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  (iemands,  230 

And  tempts  once  more  thy  sacrilegious  hands." 

She  said ;  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears ; 


no  POPE 

But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's  ears. 

In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails  ; 

For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails  ?  235 

Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  remain, 

While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 

''  To  arms,  to  arms  !  "  the  bold  Thalestris  cries, 

And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 

All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack ;  240 

Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones  crack ; 

Heroes'  and  Heroines'  shouts  confusedly  rise, 

And  base  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 

No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are  found ; 

Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound.  24s 

So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  engage. 

And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions  rage ; 

'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars ;  Latona,  Hermes  arms ; 

And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms ; 

Jove's  thunder  roars,  heaven  trembles  all  around ;  250 

Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  resound ; 

Earth  shakes  her  nodding  towers,  the  ground  gives  way, 

And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day  ! 
While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris  flies, 

And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes,  255 

A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng ; 

One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song. 

''  O  cruel  nymph  !  a  living  death  I  bear," 

Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 

A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards  cast :  260 

"  Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing  "  ---  was  his  last. 

Thus  on  Maeander's  flowery  margin  lies 

Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 
As  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa  down, 
I         Chloe  stepped  in,  and  killed  him  with  a  frown ;  265 

She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
i^'      But  at  her  smile  the  beau  revived  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air. 

Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's  hair. 

The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to  side ;  270 


THE  RAPE  OF   THE  LOCK  III 

At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  subside. 

See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies. 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes ; 
Nor  feared  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to  try. 
Who  sought  no  more  "than  on  his  foe  to  die.  275 

But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength  endued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued : 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw ; 
Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'erflows,  280 

And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 

"  Now  meet  thy  fate,"  th'  incensed  virago  cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 

"  Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  said,  "  insulting  foe  ! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low ;  285 

Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind ; 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind  ! 
Rather  than  so,  ah  let  me  still  survive. 
And  still  burn  on  in  Cupid's  flames,  —  alive." 

"  Restore  the  lock  !  "  she  cries ;  and  all  around         290 
"  Restore  the  lock  !  "  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
[Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his  pain. 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost !  295 

The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept  with  pain. 
In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest, 
So  heaven  decrees  !  with  heaven  who  can  contest  ? 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar  sphere,  300 

Since  all  that  man  e'er  lost  is  treasured  there. 
There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous  vases, 
And  beaux'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer-cases. 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are  found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  riband  bound,  305 

The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's  prayers, 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs, 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea, 


112  POPE 

Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse  —  she  saw  it  upward  rise,  310 

Though  marked  by  none  but  quick  poetic  eyes ; 
(Thus  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens  withdrew, 
To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view). 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair.  31s 

Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright. 
The  skies  bespangling  with  dishevelled  light. 

This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the  Mall  survey. 
As  through  the  moonlight  shade  they  nightly  stray. 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray ;  320 

This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless  skies, 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes ; 
And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  foredoom 
The  fate  of  Louis,  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then  cease,  bright  nymph  !  t6  moUrn  thy  ravished  hair,  325 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere  ! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast, 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost : 
For  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye. 

When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die ;  330 

When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they  must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust, 


This  lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame. 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name. 


THE   UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understood ; 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind ; 


THE   UNIVERSAL  PRAYER  113 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will.  12 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This,  teach  me  more  than  Hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  Heaven  pursue.  16 

What  blessings  Thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives, 

T'  enjoy  is  to  obey.  20 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man. 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round :  24 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  Thy  bolts  to  throw. 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  land. 

On  each  I  judge  Thy  foe.  28 

If  I  am  right.  Thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh  !  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way.  32 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent.  36 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe. 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me.  40 


114  TEE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Mean  though  I  aim,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath ; 
Oh,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death.  44 

This  day,  be  bfead  and  peace  my  lot : 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done.  48 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 

Whose  altar  earth,  sea,  skies, 
One  chorus  let  all  being  raise. 

All  nature's  incense  rise !  52 

2.   THE  MOVEMENT  OF  REACTION 

Although  the  mention  of  eighteenth-century  English  poetry  is 
generally  suggestive  of  the  conventional  school  of  Pope  and  Johnson, 
it  must  be  noted  that  contemporaneous  with  this  school,  almost  from 
the  very  beginning  of  the  century,  there  was  proceeding  another  lit- 
erary movement,  destined  in  time  to  bring  about  a  revolution  in  Eng- 
lish letters  as  great  as  that  which  had  resulted  in  the  ascendency  of 
the  Classical  school.  This  movement  was  fostered  by  a  few  poets, 
who,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  could  not  or  would  not  be  bound  by 
the  tenets  of  this  school.  Some  of  these  poets  discarded  the  heroic 
couplet  and  reverted  to  the  verse  forms  as  well  as  the  poetic  ideals  of 
earUer  English  and  North-European  poetry;  some,  indeed,  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  ancient  classics.  Others  clung  to  the  couplet  and 
no  doubt  imagined  that  they  were  wholly  in  accord  with  the  conven- 
tionaUsts,  although  their  poetic  sympathies  were  such  as  could  never 
be  satisfied  with  the  ideals  of  Pope  and  his  disciples.  Passion^  imag- 
ination, love  of  nature  —  all  of  which  had  fallen  into""disrepute  — 
littteUji  liLlU  Aunbserted  themselves  in  the  works  of  such  writers ;  and 
thus  very  slowly;  indefinitely,  almost  imperceptibly  at  first,  the  new 
poetry  arose.  For  a  new  poetry  it  was,  although  until  the  time  of 
Bums  it  was  to  a  large  degree  held  in  check  by  the  dominant  authority 
of  the  other  school. 

The  course  of  this  movement  in  the  history  of  eighteenth-century 
letters  may  be  indicated  by  a  brief  mention  of  some  of  the  more  im- 


TEE  MOVEMENT  OF  REACTION  II5 

portant  poets  concerned.  The  first  to  attain  to  any  prominence  was 
a  Scotchman,  james  Thomson  (i 700-1 748).  Of  him  Saintsbury 
says  in  his  History  of  English  Poetry:  "Thomson's  poetical  works 
are  among  the  most  important  in  the  history  of  English  poetry,  al- 
though they  cannot  be  exactly  ranked  among  the  best  of  English 
poems.  Appearing  as  they  did  at  the  very  same  time  with  the  most 
perfect  and  polished  work  of  Pope,  they  served  as  an  antidote  to  that 
great  writer's  '  town  '  poetry.  Couched  as  the  best  of  them  were  in 
blank  verse,  or  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  they  showed  a  bold  front 
to  the  insolent  domination  of  the  stopped  couplet."  Thomson's  Sea- 
sons (17  26-1 730),  although  written  largely  in  the  formal,  rhetorical 
language  of  the  Classical  school,  nevertheless  differs  widely  from  that 
school  in  showing  an  "  honest  understanding  "  and  sincere  love  of 
nature.  Equally  important  as  an  influence  in  the  new  direction  was 
the  work  of  Tw^ivrAg  fy]^Av  It  is  true  that  his  poems  are  by  no  means 
free  from  the  coldness  and  artificiality  of  the  age ;  yet  his  gentle  sym- 
pathy with  man  and  nature,  together  with  his  ripe  scliOldi sliip  and 
intiTnalL  auquaiiitagce  witn"tfiTt??5^iyK4te-pq?Tfy'or6TKer  lan'dsT  cbn- 
tributed  to  make  him  an  inspirer  of  the  new  poclry  rather  than  a  con^  ^ 
firmer  of  the  old.     As  Stopford  Brooke  has  said :  "  He  stands  clear     ^ 

and  bright  on  the  ridge  between  the  old  and  the  new.     Having  ascended 1 

through  the  old  poetry,  he  saw  the  new  landscape  of  song  below  him, 
felt  its  fresher  air,  and  sent  his  own  power  into  the  men  who  arose 
after  him."  With  Gray  closes  what  may  be  regarded  as  the  first 
period  of  the  reactionary  movement.  -- — — 

The  opening  of  its  second  period  is  marked  by  three  matters  of 
import :  first,  the  comparative  barrenness  of  poetic  achievement  dur- 
ing the  third  quarter  of  the  century ;  second,  the  renewal  of  interest  y^ 
in  the  romance  of  past  ages,  as  evidenced  by  the  successful  publica-  Jj 
tion  of  Bishop  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry  ;  and  third,  the  lit-  ^ 
erary  dictatorship  of  Dr.  Johnson,  an  ardent  follower  of  Pope  and  a 
zealous  advocate  of  the  ideals  of  the  Classical  school.  The  conserva- 
tism of  Johnson  undoubtedly  had  much  influence  over  the  work  of 
his  intimate  friend  and  companion,  Oliver  goldsmith.  Indeed, 
Goldsmith  is  often  classed  among  the  conventional  poets  of  the  cen- 
tury. No  doubt  he  tried  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  conventional 
school ;  no  doubt  he  wrote  some  poems  with  a  purpose  as  consciously 
didactic  as  was  ever  that  of  Pope.  But  the  spirit  of  the  artist  was 
more  potent  than  the  purpose  of  the  artificer ;  in  spite  of  his  heroic 
couplets  and  attempts  at  moralizing,  in  spite  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  of 
his  own  adherence  to  conventional  poetic  theories,  Goldsmith's  truer 
instincts  place  him  among  the  poets  of  the  newer  school. 


Il6  THE  EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

During  the  latter  years  of  this  period  of  reaction  the  last  taper 
of  the  conventional  school  flickered  and  went  out.  george  crabbf. 
(1754-1832)  and  WILLIAM  cowPER  (1731-1800),  like  Goldsmith,  both 
counted  themselves  of  the  tribe  of  Pope.  Both  used  the  regulation 
couplet;  both  tried  to  write  in  the  regulation  manner.  But  the 
sincere  and  realistic  products  of  the  Muse  demonstrated  the  futility 
of  clinging  to  a  style  from  which  the  soul  had  escaped.  Utterly 
free  of  literary  conventions  and  entirely  devoted  to  romantic  beauty 
and  mystic  vision  was  the  eccentric  poet  and  painter,  williamj^lake 
(175 7- 1827).  Finally  Robert  burns,  in  his  matchle^S'tongs,  gave 
voice  to  strains  such  as  for  simplicity  and  sweetness  had  not  been 
heard  since  the  best  days  of  the  Elizabethans.  Even  he,  when  he 
exchanged  his  native  dialect  for  literary  English,  at  times  showed 
curious  traces  of  the  earlier  school;  but,  on  the  whole,  the 
differences  between  Pope,  who  opened  the  century,  and  Burns,  who 
closed  it,  are  nearly  world-wide.  The  forces  of  reaction  had  com- 
pleted their  work,  and  England  was  ready  for  the  new  Romantic 
school. 


THOMAS  GRAY   (1716-1771) 

The  quiet,  sober-minded  Thomas  Gray  is  frequently  classed  with 
Milton  among  the  most  scholarly  of  English  poets.  Gray's  life  was 
given  almost  entirely  to  self-jculture.  Probably  no  other  man  of  his 
time  in  all  Europe  was  so  well  read  in  modern  literature,  and  few  had 
a  more  intimate  knowledge  6i  the  classics.  As  a  result  of  this  wide 
range  of  reading,  he  had  developed  a  critical  insight  that  might  have 
contributed  much  to  making  him  a  great  poet ;  but  in  Gray  the  crea- 
tive impulse  was  largely  lacking.  If,  like  Pope  or  Wordsworth  or 
Tennyson,  he  had  resolutely  confined  himself  to  writing  poetry,  his 
rank  as  a  poet  would  doubtless  have  been  far  higher  than  it  is.  His 
mind  was  clear  and  searching,  his  taste  refined  —  almost  fastidious, 
his  power  of  expression  of  extraordinary  fitness  and  finish.  Though 
of  no  great  imagination  or  originality,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  achieve 
at  least  a  partial  emancipation  from  the  thraldom  of  the  Classical 
school.  In  spite  of  his  talents,  however,  he  is  a  poet  only  of  the  pre- 
sentative  or  reflective  class ;  yet  one  whom  the  world  will  never  for- 
get as  the  author  of  the  Elee^y  —  a  production  of  senJtimejjtifenified j 
and  temperate  rather  than  profound,  yet  so  wide-rndts  appeal  anTsol 
-■fiearly  perfect  in  expression  that  it  is  perhaps  the  best  known  and  best 
loved  poem  in  the  English  language. 


THOMAS  GRAY  II7 

1716-1741.  —  Gray  was  born  in  London  in  December,  1716.  His 
father,  though  a  man  of  some  wealth,  was  extravagant,  intemperate, 
and  cruelly  indifferent  to  his  family.  Hence  the  nurture  and  educa- 
tion of  the  youth  devolved  entirely  on  the  mother.  Young  Gray 
became  a  pupil  in  Eton,  w^here  his  mother's  brother  was  a  teacher, 
and  thence  he  proceeded  to  Cambridge,  which  he  entered  at  the  age 
of  eighteen.  Four  years  later  he  left  the  university  without  taking  a 
degree,  and  with  Horace  Walpole,  a  fellow-student  at  both  Eton  and 
Cambridge,  began  a  tour  of  the  Continent  which  lasted  till  1741. 

1741-1754.  —  Gray's  father  died  in  1741,  after  having  squandered 
nearly  all  his  fortune.  Accordingly  the  next  year  the  poet's  mother 
moved  to  the  home  of  her  widowed  sister,  at  the  village  of  Stoke  Pogis, 
in  southern  Buckinghamshire,  and  was  soon  joined  by  her  son.  Here 
Gray  wrote  his  first  English  poems,  the  Ode  to  Spring,  the  Eton  College 
ode,  and  the  beginnings  of  the  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard, 
the  latter  probably  suggested  by  the  churchyard  near  his  new  home  in 
Stoke  Pogis.  During  the  winter  of  this  same  year,  1742,  he  returned 
to  Cambridge,  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Civil  Law,  and  settled 
down  to  a  dreamy  life  of  study  in  the  libraries  of  the  university,  varied 
only  by  vacation  visits  to  his  mother,  and  occasional  trips  abroad.  In 
1747  his  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  was  published,  but 
it  met  with  little  favor.  The  Elegy,  on  which  he  had  been  working  at 
intervals  since  1742,  appeared  in  1750.  Three  years  later  his  mother 
died,  and  he  became  more  than  ever  the  solitary  recluse  of  the  Cam- 
bridge libraries. 

1754-1771.  —  From  1754  to  1757  Gray  produced  some  few  short 
poems,  among  them  his  well-known  Pindaric  Odes  (see  introduction). 
In  1757  he  was  offered  the  laureateship,  an  honor  which  he  refused. 
Not  long  after  this  he  began  to  write  translations  and  imitations  of 
the  poetry  of  the  Celts  and  the  Norsemen,  —  translations  which  had 
a  decided  influence  in  the  development  of  the  new  Romantic  move-' 
rnent.  The  remaining  years  of  his  life  were  even  more  uneventful  than 
those  which  had  preceded.  In  1768  he  was  given  the  professorship  of 
Modern  History  and  Modern  Languages  at  Cambridge,  but  he  never 
delivered  a  lecture.  In  1771  the  "  shy,  sensitive,  secluded  scholar  " 
died,  and  was  buried  beside  his  mother  in  the  "  country  churchyard  " 
of  Stoke  Pogis. 

According  to  Gray's  own  statement,  he  aimed  at  a  style  with 
"  extreme  conciseness  of  expression,  yet  pure,  perspicuous,  and  musi- 
cal." In  this  he  has  succeeded  so  admirably  that  almost  any  one  of 
his  few  poems  is  well  worth  the  reader's  acquaintance.     On  the  whole. 


Il8  GRAY 

the  most  enjoyable  are  probably  his  "  odes,"  such  as  The  Bard  and 
that  on  ^fon  College,  and  the  famous  Elegy  which  foll^WS^.  -  The 
romantic  quality  which  these  poems  show  is  manifest  not  merely  in 
the  breaking  away  from  the  heroic  couplet,  but  in  the  poet's  sympathy 
with  low-born  and  natural  life,  simple  eniotions,  and  homely  scenes. 

ELEGY 
Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me.  4 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ;  8 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign.  12 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep.  16 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  ripuse  them  from  their  lowly  bed.  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share.  24 


ELEGY  119 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  I      28 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor.  :2 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave.  36 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.  40 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ?  44 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 

Or  waked  to  extasy  the  living  lyre.  48 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul.  52 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.  56 


I20  GRAY 

Some  village-Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 

The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood'.  60 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes,  64 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind,  68 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame.  72 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way.  76 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die.  84 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  ?         ,j         88 


ELEGY  121 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires : 
Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries ; 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires.  92 


For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  Dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tales  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate,  96 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.  100 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by.  104 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love.  108 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite  tree ; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ;  112 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne.  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn."  116 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own.  120 


122  TEE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear. 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend.  124 

[  No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God.  128 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  (1728-1774) 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  if  not  the  greatest,  is  at  least  the  most  versatile 
and  pleasing  writer  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Whether  as  essay 
writer  or  dramatist,  poet  or  novelist,  he  put  his  hand  to  nothing  that 
he  did  not  impress  with  a  certain  indefinable  charm.  Of  critical  faculty 
or  accurate  knowledge  he  had  almost  nothing,  nor  was  he  by  any 
means  a  deep  thinker.  Yet  he  was  easy,  simple,  and  natural ;  and, 
as  Irving  suggests,  he  identified  himself  with  his  writings  in  such  a 
way  as  to  make  us  "  love  the  man  at  the  same  time  that  we  admire 
the  author."  His  style  has  been  well  characterized  as  full  of  "  hu- 
manity and  grace,  of  simplicity  and  picturesque  sweetness."  His 
life  was  a  singular  mixture  of  comedy  and  pathos,  and  has  always 
been  a  favorite  theme  of  essayist  and  biographer.  We  can  give  here 
only  the  briefest  outline. 

1728-1752.  —  Goldsmith  was  born  in  1728,  in  Pallas,  a  small  Irish 
village  where  his  father  was  a  poor  Protestant  clergyman.  Two 
years  later  the  family  moved  to  the  village  of  Lissoy,  and  here  the 
boy  received  his  early  schooling,  some  reflection  of  which  we  find  in 
The  Deserted  Village.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  entered  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar,  or  charity  student.  He  seems  to  have 
been  shiftless  at  college,  but  was  finally  graduated  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one,  the  lowest  in  his  class.  The  next  three  years  he  spent  ostensibly 
in  preparation  for  holy  orders,  but  really  in  idleness. 

1 752-1 759.  —  Goldsmith's  uncle,  who  had  helped  him  through 
college,  now  gave  him  fifty  pounds  with  which  to  enter  upon  the  study 
of  law  in  London ;  but  Oliver  proceeded  in  this  career  no  farther  than 
Dublin,  where  he  gambled  away  his  money  in  a  single  night.  The 
uncle  again  to  the  rescue,  Oliver  then  tried  his  hand  at  medicine,  and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  123 

spent  two  years  at  Edinburgh,  afterwards  two  more  strolling  from 
university  to  university  on  the  continent,  in  pursuit  of  a  warrant  to 
practise.  Finally,  somewhere  in  Italy,  he  succeeded  in  capturing  a 
medical  degree  —  at  least  so  he  asserts  —  and  he  was  thereafter  "  Dr. 
Goldsmith."  We  now  see  Goldsmith,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight, 
back  from  his  travels  and  trying  in  every  conceivable  way  to  make  a 
living,  —  as  apothecary's  assistant,  as  tutor  in  a  school,  and,  finally, 
as  hack  reviewer  for  a  bookseller.  Thus  his  energies  were  at  last 
directed  into  their  proper  channel,  for  in  the  intervals  of  his  hack- 
work he  succeeded  in  writing,  and  even  publishing,  his  Enquiry  info 
the  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe.  With  this  naively  preten- 
tious essay,  about  a  subject  of  which  he  knew  next  to  nothing,  his 
career  as  an  author  commenced. 

1 759-1 774.  —  During  the  later  years  of  his  life,  amid  any  quantity 
of  literary  drudgery  —  a  History  of  England,  a  History  of  Animated 
Nature,  and  the  like  —  he  found  time  to  produce  several  works  which 
were  real  literature,  —  some  genial  and  sprightly  essays,  two  very 
good  poems  beside  other  worthy  bits  of  verse,  two  comedies  which 
still  stir  the  world  with  laughter  and  delight,  and  an  idyllic  romance 
whose  charm  can  never  grow  old.     He  was  an  honored  member  of  the 
famous  literary  club  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  friends.     He  earned  at 
times  considerable  sums  of  money,  but  through  personal  extravagance 
and  reckless  generosity  he  was  constantly  in  debt.     Yet  he  was  never 
so  poor  but  that  he  would  lend  his  last  penny  to  some  Irish  rela- 
tive poorer  still.     His  affectionate  and  confiding   nature,  his  simple- 
heartedness  and  sunny  disposition,  won  and  kept  for  him  a  host  of 
I  friends.     It  is  pleasant  to  contemplate  this  shy,  awkward,  pock- 
I  marked,  improvident  Irishman,  winning  his  way  to  the  hearts   of 
I  London's  greatest  literary  men.     He  impressed  himself  upon  others 
I  not  by  presumption  or  by  assertive  wit,  but  by  a  humor  which  widened 
I  sympathy  while  it  wakened  laughter.     His  literary  style,  like  his 
personality,  was  irresistible,  because  its  charm  was  natural.     He  was 
in  the  estimation  of  his  friends,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said,  "  a  very  great 
man  " ;  and  when  he  died,  in  1774,  at  the  early  age  of  forty-five,  the 
grief  of  Johnson,  Burke,  Reynolds,  and  the  rest  was  very  deep  and 
sincere. 

The  student  who  takes  up  the  reading  of  this  author's  works  will 
soon  find  that  he  has  entered  upon  what  is  not  a  task,  but  a  delight. 
In  both  verse  and  prose  Goldsmith  is  a  most  important  figure  in  the 
transition  from  the  later  Classical  school  to  the  new  Romantic  of  the 
nineteenth  century.     The  Traveller  (1764)  for  reflective  poetry,  The 


124  GOLDSMITH 

Vicar  of  Wakefield  (1766)  for  the  story,  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 
(1773)  for  the  drama,  are  representative  works  which  all  should  read. 
But  the  most  popular  of  his  writings  is  The  Deserted  Village.  It 
is  also  the  most  painstaking  and  artistic  of  his  poems,  and  therefore 
deserves  especial  attention. 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain ; 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed : 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,  s 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please,  j 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green,  I 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  !  I 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,  10 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade. 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day,  is  , 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play,  i 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free,  ^ 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree. 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ;  20 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown  25 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ;  \ 

The  swain  mis  trustless  of  his  smutted  face. 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love. 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove.         30 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  125 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please : 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed : 
These  were  thy  charms  — •  but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn,  35 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  sm^iling  plain.  40 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow  sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies,  4S 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries : 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land.  so 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  — 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,  55 

When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began,      ^ 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man : 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ;  60 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose,  65 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 


126  GOLDSMITH 

These  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green,  — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew. 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care. 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline. 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine  ! 
How  happy  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try. 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ;  ^ 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  1 27 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend ; 

Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ;  no 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow,  115 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below : 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young. 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school,  120 

The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail,  125 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ;  130 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train,  135 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose.        .  140 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year : 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  bis  place : 


128  GOLDSMITH 

Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power  145 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 

He  chid  their  wanderings  but  relieved  their  pain :  150 

The  long  remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay,  155 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away, 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done. 

Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ;  160 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call,  165 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.  170 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise,  175 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray.  180 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  1 29 

Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile : 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed ;  185 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed  : 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm,         190 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule,  195 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ;  200 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned ; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught,  205 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew : 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge.  210 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 
For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew,  215 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye,  220 


13©  GOLDSMITH 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 

Where  grey-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 

Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace  225 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place : 

The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ;  ,230 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day. 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay ; 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show,  235 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendors  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart.  240 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  wood-man's  ballad  shall  prevafl ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear,  245 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.  250 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play,  255 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first  born  sway, 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  131 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed,  —  260 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 

And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 

The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey  265 

The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  an  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ;  270 

Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride  275 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied,  — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth ;  280 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green : 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ; 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure  all  285 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain. 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies. 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ;  290 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress : 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed ;  295 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 


132  GOLDSMITH 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band,  300 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where,  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed  305 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare- worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped  —  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ;  310 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade,  31s 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train :  320 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  —  Ah,  turn  thine  eyes    325 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn :  330 

Now  lost  to  all,  —  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled,  — 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  133 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town,  335 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  —  thine,  the  loveliest  train,  — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  !  340 

Ah,  no  !  To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before,  345 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 
Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ;  350 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned. 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey,  355 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies. 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green,  360 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day. 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past,  365 

Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep.  370 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new  found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 


134  GOLDSMITH 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears,  375 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose,  380 

And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 

And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury  !  thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree,  385 

How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own.  390 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun,  395 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,  me  thinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail. 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,  400 

Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above,  •  405 

And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ;      ^Mjk-     410 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  X35 

Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  soUtary  pride ; 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 

That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so ; 

Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel,  415 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 

Farewell,  and  O  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 

On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 

Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow,  420 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime ; 

Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 

Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 

Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possessed,         425 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 

That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay,' 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away ; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.  430 


WILLIAM  BLAKE    (1757-1827) 

William  Blake  wrote  reams  of  mystical  and  symbolical  poetry  and 
prose.  Owing,  however,  to  his  intellectual  eccentricity,  his  compara- 
tively secluded  way  of  living,  and  the  restricted  publication  of  his 
books  —  printed  by  himself  from  his  own  engravings  of  the  text  — 
his  works  were  Uttle  known  by  his  contemporaries.  But  his  rarely 
-beautiful  and  SDontaq*^^"^  11"^'''°  1  ^^"^  firf^it  ^'"  T^-"tf1^rtH^coHerrick's. 
have  exercised  a  marked  influence  upon  some  of  the  poet§  of  the  later 
nineteenth  century.  To  the  general  reader  he  is  known  chiefly  by 
his  Poetical  Sketches  (1783),  S(mgs  of  Innocence  (1789),  and  Songs 
of  Experience  (1794).  In  these,  according  to  Professor  Saintsbury, 
there  are  pieces  which  for  a  "  certain  combination  of  extreme  sim- 
plicity with  unearthly  music  "  few  contemporaries  or  followers  were 
to  equal. 


136  BLAKE 


SONGS    OF    INNOCENCE 
INTRODUCTION 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me :  4 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb  ! " 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again ; " 

So  I  piped  :  he  wept  to  hear.  8 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  ! " 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear.  12 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight ; 

And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed,  16 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen. 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear. 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear.  20 

ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW 

Can  I  see  another's  woe, 

And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 

Can  I  see  another's  grief. 

And  not  seek  for  kind  relief  ?  24 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear. 

And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ?  "^ 


ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW  137 

Can  a  father  see  his  child 

Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ?  28 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 

An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear? 

No,  no  !  never  can  it  be  ! 

Never,  never  can  it  be  !  .  32 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all 

Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small. 

Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 

Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear  —  36 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast, 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near. 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear  ?  40 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 

Wiping  all  our  tears  away  ? 

O  no  !  never  can  it  be  ! 

Never,  never  can  it  be  !  44 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all ; 

He  becomes  an  infant  small; 

He  becomes  a  man  of  woe ; 

He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too.  48 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh. 

And  thy  Maker  is  not  by : 

Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 

And  thy  Maker  is  not  near.  52 

Oh,  He  gives  to  us  His  joy. 

That  our  grief  He  may  destroy ; 

Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone 

He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan.  56 


138  BLAKE 

THE  CHIMNEY    SWEEPER 

When  my  mother  died  I  was  very  young, 

And  my  father  sold  me  while  yet  my  tongue 

Could  scarcely  cry  "  'weep  !  Veep  !  'weep  !  'weep  !  " 

So  your  chimneys  I  sweep,  and  in  soot  I  sleep.  60 

There's  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when  his  head, 
That  curled  like  a  lamb's  back,  was  shaved ;  so  I  said, 
"  Hush,  Tom  !  never  mind  it,  for  when  your  head's  bare 
You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your  white  hair."         64 

And  so  he  was  quiet,  and  that  very  night. 

As  Tom  was  a-sleeping,  he  had  such  a  sight !  — 

That  thousands  of  sweepers,  Dick,  Joe,  Ned,  and  Jack, 

Were  all  of  them  locked  up  in  coffins  of  black.  68 

And  by  came  an  Angel  who  had  a  bright  key. 

And  he  opened  the  coffins  and  set  them  all  free ; 

Then  down  a  green  plain,  leaping,  laughing,  they  run, 

And  wash  in  a  river  and  shine  in  the  sun.  72 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  bags  left  behind,  , 

They  rise  upon  clouds  and  sport  in  the  wind ; 

And  the  Angel  told  Tom,  if  he'd  be  a  good  boy, 

He'd  have  God  for  his  father,  and  never  want  joy.  76 

And  so  Tom  awoke ;  and  we  rose  in  the  dark, 

And  got  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes  to  work. 

Though  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy  and  warm ; 

So  if  all  do  their  duty  they  need  not  fear  harm.  80 

AUGURIES   OF  INNOCENCE 

To  see  a  world  in  a  grain  of  sand, 

And  a  heaven  in  a  wild  flower ;  ; 
Hold  infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, ' 

And  eternity  in  an  hour. 


ROBERT  BURNS  139 

ROBERT   BURNS    (1759-1796) 

The  greatest  poet  of  Scotland,  the  most  original  of  the  eighteenth- 
century  poets  of  Great  Britain,  .one  of  the  best  son^  writers_of  th^ 
world,  —  these  are  epithets  not  too  extravagant  to  apply  to  Robert 
Bums.  Bom  to  a  most  humble  life,  a  poor  country  ploughboy,  with- 
out the  advantages  of  education  or  of  training  in  his  art,  he  has  never- 
theless succeeded  beyond  all  but  a  few  in  touching  the  heart  of  man- 
kind. He  was  born  to  be  the  poet  of  lyrical  passion,  to  sing  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  loves  and  yeamings  and  ambi- 
tions of  the  homely  human  nature  which  he  knew  and  so  well  under- 
stood. Except  in  one  or  two  poems  his  aim  is  not  action  or  dramatic 
intensity ;  and  he  displays  little  of  the  reflective  quality  and  sustained 
imagination  that  characterize  the  highest  order  of  poets.  He  felt 
rather  than  thought;  he  sang  rather  than  philosophized. 

Tender  and  sympathetic  toward.all  living  things,  he  has  a  message 
for  our  hearts  fromthe  heart  of  Nature.- '"Generous  and  impulsive, 
he  carries  us  with  him  in  BisreciEaTof  experiences  whether  imaginary 
or  real.  And  in  Burns  the  experience  is  usually  real.  With  his 
lively  humor  he  makes  village  scenes  and  pleasures,  and  their 
simple,  lowly  heroes,  live  again  for  us.  When  once  Burns  had  sung,  no 
singer  could  be  artificial  and  succeed.  'Py  thp  -cyrapT^fh  ni  h\^  lyrics 
he  thawed  "  the  .eighteenth-century  fros_tJI_Qi.PDpe-and  his  followers* 
By  his  dialect  poems  he  turned  the  broad,  provincial  Ayrshire  into  a 
national  and  literary  tongue.  Still,  at  the  best,  his  was  only  a  half 
Hfe,  with  possibilities  half  realized.  The  early  years  were  a  struggle 
with  harsh  necessity ;  the  later,  a  struggle  with  dissipation  and  despair. 
Had  his  will  power  been  as  strong  as  his  passions  were  deep,  and  his 
life  as  pure  as  his  ideals  high,  it  is  impossible  to  surmise  how  success- 
ful both  in  life  and  letters  he  might  have  been.  For  his  nature  was  at 
bottom  both  sensitive  and  reverent;  his  religious  feeling  deep  and 
sincere.  Despite  its  blemishes  and  notwithstanding  his  own  imper- 
fections—  perhaps,  after  all,  because  of  the  passion  of  them  —  his 
poetry  stands  out  honest,  manly,  and  inspiring. 

I759~i786.  —  Bums  was  bom  in  a  small  clay  cottage  on  a  little 
farm  two  miles  south  of  the  Scottish  town  of  Ayr,  and  close  to 
the  old  AUoway  Kirk  of  his  Tarn  0'  Shanter.  His  father  was  an  in- 
telligent. God-fearing  man,  but  very  poor ;  and  the  lad's  education 
was  necessarily  of  the  most  fragmentary  character.  From  his  four- 
teenth to  his  twenty-fourth  year,  young  Burns  worked  hard  as  the 
principal  laborer  on  his  father's  farm.  All  this  time,  however,  he 
was  a  great  reader,  devouring,  among  other  things,  the  Spectator y 


140  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Shakespeare,  Pope,  and  the  ballads  of  Scotland.  These  Scottish 
ballads  seem  early  to  have  aroused  a  spirit  of  artistic  emulation,  and 
we  soon  hear  of  the  young  poet,  as  he  guides  his  plough,  fitting  words 
of  his  own  to  ancient  Scottish  tunes.  When  about  twenty-three  years 
of  age  he  went  to  a  neighboring  town  to  learn  the  trade  of  flax-dress- 
ing ;  here  were  sown  the  seeds  of  the  evil  habits  which  did  so  much  to 
ruin  his  later  life.  In  1784  his  father  died;  and,  with  his  brother, 
Robert  rented  a  farm  at  Mossgiel,  where  many  of  his  best  poems  were 
written,  among  others  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.  But  the  farm 
proved  a  failure ;  and  the  poet,  wearied  with  that  kind  of  life,  and 
harassed  by  the  consequences  of  his  youthful  follies,  laid  plans  for 
emigrating  to  the  West  Indies.  To  secure  money  for  the  expenses 
of  this  voyage,  he  published,  in  1786,  a  small  volume  of  Poems,  Chiefly 
in  the  Scottish  Dialect.  The  result  was  entirely  unexpected.  Scot- 
land was  taken  by  storm ;  and  the  poet  was  induced  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Edinburgh,  where  he  became  the  literary  and  social  lion  of  the  day. 
1 786- 1 796.  — Burns  spent  a  winter  at  Edinburgh,  partly  in  the 
cultivated  circles  of  that  great  literary  centre,  partly  with  rough  and 
drunken  companions  at  the  taverns  and  social  clubs  of  the  city.  With 
the  proceeds  of  a  second  edition  of  his  poems  he  took  the  lease  of  a 
farm  at  Ellisland  in  southern  Scotland.  Then  he  married  Jean  Ar- 
mour, the  most  permanent  of  his  many  loves.  This,  the  period  in 
which  Tarn  0'  Shanter  was  written,  was  the  happiest  of  his  life ;  but  it 
was  a  period  of  very  brief  duration.  In  1789  he  secured  a  position  as 
exciseman,  that  is,  inspector  of  liquors  and  other  goods  liable  to  an 
internal  revenue  tax.  His  habits  of  intemperance  were  now  becoming 
constantly  worse,  and  from  the  day,  in  1791,  when  he  finally  aban- 
doned his  farm  for  a  residence  in  the  neighboring  town  of  Dumfries, 
his  downfall  was  rapid.  It  is  true  that  during  periods  of  remorse  and 
temporary  reform  he  still  continued  to  write  immortal  songs;  but 
his  health  had  been  shattered,  and  his  spirits  were  broken.  At  last, 
in  July,  1796,  when  only  thirty-seven  years  old,  the  poet  died. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  and  Tarn  o'  Shanter  are  the  most 
famous  of  Burns's  longer  poems.  The  Twa  Dogs  and  The  Brigs  of 
Ayr  are  replete  with  humor  and  keen  observation.  The  little  poems, 
To  a  Mountain  Daisy  and  To  a  Mouse,  exquisitely  express  the  poet's 
feeling  for  nature.  But  the  best  of  his  writings  are  unquestionably 
the  songs,  such  as  Bonie  Doon,  Highland  Mary,  A  Red,  Red  Rose,  Scots 
Wha  Hae  wi'  Wallace  Bled,  A  Man's  a  Man  for  A '  That,  and  scores 
of  others.  It  should  be  noted  that,  save  a  few  stanzas  of  The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,  all  the  poems  mentioned  above  are  in  the  Scottish 


AULD  LANG  SYNE  141 

dialect.  Indeed,  when  the  poet  abandons  his  native  dialect  for  liter- 
ary English,  he  is  frequently  neither  better  nor  worse  than  dozens  of 
minor  poets  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But  the  student  who  wishes 
to  read  Burns  need  not  fear,  the  dialect ;  for  mere  reading  purposes, 
it  is  as  easily  mastered  as  it  is  charming  in  its  effects. 


AULD   LANG   SYNE 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  mind  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  auld  lang  syne  ! 

CHORUS 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp  ! 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine  ! 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pou'd  the  gowans  fine ; 
But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl'd  in  the  burn, 

Fra6  morning  sun  till  dine ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere  ! 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine  ! 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  gude-willy  waught, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


142  BURNS 

OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND   CAN  BLAW 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw  25 

I  dearly  Uke  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There's  wild-woods  grow  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between ;  30 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair  : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds,  35 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonie  flower  that  springs      • 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green ; 
There's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings. 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean.  40 

HIGHLAND   MARY 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes,  4S 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel, 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay,  green  birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom,  50 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I  clasp 'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ;  ^ 


BON  IE  DOON  143 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life,  55 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ;  60 

But  O  !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips  65 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  clos'd.for  ay  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  !  70 

But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


BONIE   DOON 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds,  75 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ? 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days, 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true.  80 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 


144  BURNS 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon  85 

To  see  the  wood-bine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ;  90 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


DUNCAN  GRAY 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
On  blythe  Yule-night  when  we  were  fou,  95 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  100 

Duncan  fieech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in,  105 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowpin  owre  a  linn ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  no 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
"Shall  I,  like  a  fool,"  quoth  he, 
"  For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 
She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  !  "  115 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 


SCOTS   WHA   HAE  145 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  120 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings. 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings ; 
And  O  !  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  ! 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace,  125 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 

Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath ;  130 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

SCOTS  WHA  HAE 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  af  ten  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed,  135 

Or  to  victory ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 

See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  — 

Chains  and  slavery  !  140 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law  14s 

Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa', 
Let  him  on  wi'  me  ! 


146  BURNS 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  !  150 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty's  in  every  blow  !  —  155 

Let  us  do  or  die !  .  . 


A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that !  160 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine,  165 

Wear  hodden-gray,  an'  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ;  170 

The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that ; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at'his  word,  175 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 
•     His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that. 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that.  180 


A   RED,   RED  ROSE  I47 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that,  185 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  I'et  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that,  190 

That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  o'er,  195 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

A  RED,   RED   ROSE 

My  luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June : 
My  luve  is  like  the  melodic 

That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune.  •        200 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I ; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry : 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear,  205 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 
I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile  !  210 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho'  'twere  ten  thousand  mile. 


148  BURNS 

TO  A  MOUSE,  ON  TURNING  HER  UP   IN  HER 
NEST,  WITH  THE  PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER,   1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerin  brattle ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle  !    '  ^ 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal !  k 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 
A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request : 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave. 

An'  never  miss't !  18 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  !  24 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast. 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell.  30 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT  149 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  !  36 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promis'd  joy.  42 

Still,  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear  !  48 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT    AIKEN,    ESQ.,  OF    AYR 

"  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useftil  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor."  —  Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise : 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays,  S 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah  !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 


150  BURNS 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ;  10 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose : 

The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes,  — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  .  is 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ;  20 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  thro' 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an'  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonily. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile. 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee,  25 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin  30 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown. 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  — ■  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e  — 

Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown. 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee,  35 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ;  40 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT  151 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due.  45 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
■     An'  ne'er  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play ; 

*'  An'  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway,  50 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright !  " 

But,  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ;  5$ 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor,   ' 

To  do  some  errands,  an'  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ;  60 

Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A  strappan  youth,  he  takes  the  mother's  eye ;  65 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill-ta'en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But,  blate  an'  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy  70 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave, 
Weel-pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 

O,  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found  1 
O,  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  compare ! 

I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round,  75 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare :  — 
"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 


152  BURNS 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale,  80 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch  !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and  truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ?  85 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !  dissembling  smooth ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild?         90 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food ; 

The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford. 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood : 

The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood,  95 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck,  fell ; 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid  : 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face,  100 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride : 

His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare ;  105 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God !  "  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim :  no 


TEE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT  1 53 

Perhaps  "  Dundee's  "  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  "  Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the  name ; 
Or  noble  "  Elgin  "  beets  the  heaven- ward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays : 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ;  us 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage  120 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ;  125 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme : 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head ;  130 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land ; 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's  com- 
mand. 13s 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days ; 

There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,  140 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 


154  BURNS 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride,  145 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ;  150 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest :  15s 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request. 

That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  fiow'ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best,  160 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings,  165 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God ;  " 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind ; 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind,  170 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 

O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil  I 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content !         175 
And,  O !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  isle.  180 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT  155 

O  Thou  !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art,  iS-? 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 

Oh,  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert. 
But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot-bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  1 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

I.  THE  NEW  ROMANTIC   POETRY 

The  new  movement,  though  it  had  gained  increasing  force  during 
the  eighteenth  century,  was,  to  some  extent,  unconscious  of  its  own 
aims,  or,  rather,  unconscious  of  any  conflict  between  itself  and  the 
older  school.  Up  to  the  last  decade  of  the  century,  poets  like  Cowper 
and  Crabbe  failed  to  realize  that  the  spirit  of  their  verse  had  broken 
entirely  with  the  spirit  of  the  verse  of  the  earlier  conventionalists. 
But  with  the  publication  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  1798,  the  new  move- 
ment at  last  came  to  an  understanding,  a  realization,  of  its  significance 
and  aim;  and  the  triumph  of  Romantic  poetry  was  complete.  In 
that  little  book  wordsworth  and  coleridge  presented  by  the  ex- 
ample of  their  poems  a  protest  against  the  methodical  art  of  Pope 
and  his  tribe.  They  raised  a  new  standard  for  themselves  and  for 
those  who  were  to  follow. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  Romantic  revolution  was  ac- 
complished in  a  day.  Not  only  had  it  been  preparing  for  nearly  a 
hundred  years :  even  when  it  arrived,  its  effects  were  so  gradual  as  to 
be  recognized  at  first  by  few.  Other  forms  than  the  heroic  couplet 
were  more  and  more  frequently  adopted;  diction  became  simpler, 
feeling  more  spontaneous,  images  more  natural.  A  new  and  larger 
range  of  poetic  subjects  was  eagerly  sought  and  found.  An  indiffer- 
ence arose  to  canons  of  criticism  hitherto  held  sacred.  In  the  Classical 
school  authority  had  reigned ;  now  individuality  became  the  watch- 
word. Whatever  men  felt  they  wrote,  and  they  wrote  to  please 
themselves  and  their  readers.  As  a  consequence,  instead  of  the  one 
traditional,  universally  approved  style,  artificial,  because  the  condi- 
tions that  produced  it  and  the  spirit  that  moved  it  were  dead,  as  many 
styles  arose  as  there  were  authors.  And  as  a  result  there  was  now 
ushered  in  an  activity  of  poetic  creation  second  only  to  that  of  the 
Elizabethan  age. 

We  have  said  that  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  Coleridge  and  Words- 
worth marked  the  culmination  of  this  Romantic  movement,  but  that 
the  far-reaching  effects  of  the  change  were  not  realized  at  once.     On 

156 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  1 57 

the  appearance  of  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  however,  in  1805, 
the  charms  of  the  new  kind  of  poetry  became  apparent  to  everybody. 
Of  course  it  is  true  that  the  fame  of  sir  Walter  scott  (1771-1832) 
as  a  poet  is  overshadowed  by  the  success  of  his  inimitable  prose.  Yet, 
historically,  too  much  cannot  be  made  of  the  fact  that  the  extreme 
popularity  of  his  metrical  romances  did  more  to  turn  —  and  speedily 
turn  —  the  public  taste  in  favor  of  the  new  poetry  than  any  of  the 
far  more  artistic  verse  of  Wordsworth  or  Coleridge,  Shelley  or  Keats. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  sonie  of  Scott's  poetry  reaches  a  very  high  level, 
according  to  the  canons  of  its  kind ;  and  if  his  work  is  uneven  in  its 
excellence  and  some  of  it  rather  commonplace,  the  same  is  no  less 
true  of  Coleridge's  and  of  Wordsworth's.  The  important  thing  for 
us  to  remember  just  here  is  that  these  three  —  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, and  Scott  —  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  finally 
established  a  kind  of  poetry  which  in  one  form  or  another  has  since 
their  time  held  sway. 

Scott  was  not  a  poet  of  the  highest  order,  creative  and  interpreta- 
tive in  one.  He  described  a  vivid  scene,  told  a  good  tale,  and  so 
stirred  the  fancy  and  the  heart.  He  never  presents  the  spectacle  of 
his  own  emotion  ;  he  rarely  rises  in  his  verse,  though  often  in  his  novels, 
to  the  heights  of  ideal  creation.  He  reproduces  for  us  the  picture  of 
a  whole-souled  muscular  Christianity.  He  is  a  representative  poet 
of  a  very  high  order.  He  should  certainly  be  included  in  a  volume  of 
this  kind ;  that  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  or  the  Lay  does  not  appear  here 
is  due  entirely  to  lack  of  space. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    (lyyc^iSso) 

It  is  doubtless  true  that  no  other  great  English  poet  is  so  uneven 
in  the  quality  of  his  productions  as  Wordsworth.  Of  the  many  hun- 
dreds of  pages  which  he  has  written,  perhaps  scarcely  more  than  a 
hundred  can  be  regarded  as  poetry  of  the  highest  type.  Yet  that 
hundred  is  enough  to  insure  his  permanent  esteem.  From  his  earliest 
appearance  critics  have  diverged  widely  in  their  judgment  of  his  rank ; 
but  they  are  nowadays  coming  more  and  more  to  agree  that  he  de- 
serves to  be  placed,  not  indeed  with  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  but 
with  those  who  are  either  great  creators  or  great  seers,  yet  not  both 
at  once.  He  was  an  interpreter  of  life,  as  Chaucer  and  Spenser  were 
creators  of  its  living  semblance.  The  marked  inequality  of  his  work 
was  due  very  largely  to  his  attempts  to  carry  out  his  own  famous 
"  Theory  of  Poetry  "  as  published  in  the  second  edition  of  the  Lyrical 


158  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Ballads,  1800.  Two  of  his  dogmas  were:  that  poetic  material  may 
fitly  be  drawn  from  themes  connected  with  the  common  life  of  the 
poor  and  lowly ;  and  that  the  language  of  poetry,  that  is  to  say,  its 
words  and  its  phrasing,  should  be  selected  from  the  language  actually 
used  by  men.  The  first  of  these  theories,  although  at  the  opposite 
pole  from  the  teaching  of  Pope  and  other  eighteenth-century  poets 
of  manners,  was  really  not  new,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  Gray  and 
Goldsmith,  and  particularly  Crabbe  and  Burns,  had  already  turned 
for  their  subjects  to  the  everyday  life  of  the  common  people.  But 
the  second  thesis  was  new,  and  was  the  rock  on  which  both  the  theory 
and  the  practice  of  Wordsworth  were  nearly  wrecked.  His  critics 
thought  that  he  desired  to  limit  poetry  to  the  mean  and  vulgar  speech 
of  ignorant  people,  and  they  consequently  derided  his  doctrine.  But 
this  was  not  what  he  had  intended  to  teach.  He  was  leading  a  revolt 
against  the  artificial  and  pompous  diction  of  the  Classical  school; 
he  was  attempting  to  show  that  a  "  proper  selection  "  from  the  lan- 
guage of  common  life  would  admit  of  such  elevation  of  style  and  such 
figurative  expression  as  naturally  attend  any  passionate  utterance, 
and  still  would  by  no  means  displease  or  disgust  the  reader  by  its 
familiarity.  The  theory  is  right  as  a  protest  against  unnatural  or 
inflated  diction  ;  it  is  wrong  so  far  as  it  tries  to  limit  poetry  to  a  dic- 
tion of  any  restricted  kind.  And  when  Wordsworth  attempts  to  ex- 
emplify his  doctrine  he  more  than  once  sinks  into  a  style  which, 
though  versified,  is  both  prosaic  and  inane.  He  is,  on  the  other  hand, 
at  his  best  when  his  poems  show  the  widest  possible  departure  from 
both  of  the  theories  mentioned  above. 

Wordsworth  was  particularly  the  poet  of  reflection  and  philosophic 
thought.  He  had  no  humor  or  dramatic  power,  and  little  passion  or 
narrative  skill.  Yet  his  spiritual  earnestness  and  sincerity  are  such 
that  we  are  constantly  reminded  in  his  poems  of  his  own  definition  of 
poetry,  "  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feeling."  At  his  best 
he  shows  a  union  of  the  deepest  feeling  and  the  profoundest  thought. 
Unlike  Milton  and  Gray  and  Tennyson  and  Arnold,  he  was  not  pri- 
marily a  scholar  of  books.  The  woods,  the  fields,  and  his  rustic  neigh- 
bors were  his  best  library.  His  love  for  nature  was  probably  truer  and 
more  tender  than  that  of  any  other  English  poet,  before  or  since. 
His  love  was  almost  personal ;  he  conceived  nature  as  a  living  spirit. 
In  his  musings  on  the  harmony  between  this  spirit  and  the  mind  of 
man,  he  was  led  from  his  sympathy  with  the  former  to  a  tender  fellow- 
feeling  for  the  latter.  Added  to  his  wonderful  insight  into  natural 
life  was  a  love  of  liberty  and  a  trust  in  God  which  make  his  best  works 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  159 

seem  hardly  less  than  inspired.  During  his  early  and  best  years  the 
critics  attacked  him  with  a  fierceness  which  no  other  great  poet,  save 
perhaps  Keats,  has  ever  aroused.  But  the  poet's  confidence  in  him- 
self and  in  his  own  ultimate  success  was  unwavering.  His  aim  was 
to  lead  men  back  from  the  empty  conventionalities  of  the  former  age 
to  a  simple,  instinctive  conception  of  existence  in  close  touch  with 
nature  and  with  nature's  God.  As  a  teacher  of  this  kind  his  influence 
was  great  and  his  greatness  unquestionable.  The  eighty  years  of 
his  life  were  singularly  uneventful  and  may  be  indicated  in  a  very 
few  words. 

1 770-1 798.  —  Wordsworth  was  born  at  Cockermouth,  in  Cumber- 
land, April,  1770.  His  early  education  was  received  in  Lancashire. 
He  was  graduated  from  Cambridge  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  without 
having  distinguished  himself  in  any  way.  On  leaving  college  he 
spent  a  short  time  in  France,  where  he  was  much  tempted  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  French  Revolution.  He  finally  settled  down  with  his 
sister  Dorothy  in  Somersetshire,  and  there  came  under  the  influence 
and  inspiration  of  his  friend  Coleridge.  This  intimacy  resulted,  in 
1798,  in  the  publication  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  mainly  the  work  of 
Wordsworth,  yet  containing  Coleridge's  immortal  contribution.  The 
Ancient  Mariner. 

1 798-1850. — The  winter  after  the  appearance  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  Wordsworth  and  his  sister,  in  company  with  Coleridge,  made 
a  visit  to  Germany.  Returning  after  a  few  months,  the  Wordsworths 
went  back  to  their  beloved  northern  country,  settling  first  at  Gras- 
mere  and  then  at  Rydal  Mount,  in  the  lake  region  of  Westmoreland. 
The  Lyrical  Ballads  were  republished  in  1800  and  again  in  1802.  This 
latter  year  was  also  the  date  of  the  poet's  marriage  to  Mary  Hutchin- 
son, a  cousin.  In  this  quiet  spot,  with  wife  and  sister,  and  surrounded 
by  Coleridge,  Southey,  De  Quincey,  Dr.  Arnold,  and  other  friends, 
he  spent  in  "  plain  living  and  high  thinking  "  the  quiet  remainder 
of  his  life.  His  most  important  poems  were  written  during  the  earlier 
part  of  this  period.  The  Ode  to  Duty  appeared  in  1805  ;  The  Prelude 
was  completed  the  same  year ;  the  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality, one  year  later.  Laodamia  and  The  Excursion  were  produced 
in  1814.  Other  volumes  followed  at  intervals,  though  little  actual 
writing  was  done  after  the  poet's  sixty-fifth  year.  On  the 
death  of  Southey,  in  1843,  Wordsworth  was  made  Poet  Laureate. 
Before  this  time  his  works  had  succeeded  in  winning  the  appreciation 
of  which  their  author  was  always  calmly  confident.  His  life  came 
to  an  end  in  April,  1850,  when  he  was  just  eighty  years  old. 


l6o  WORDSWORTH 

The  poems  which  are  given  below  are,  perhaps,  Wordsworth's  finest. 
They  are,  as  the  student  will  readily  perceive,  very  far  from  conform- 
ing to  any  narrow  theory  of  poetry.  The  Tintern  Abbey  lines  formed 
a  part  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads;  the  great  Ode  has  already  been  men- 
tioned. In  justice  to  his  complete  poetic  career,  some,  also,  of  the 
poems  should  be  read  that  were  written  in  accordance  with  his  earlier 
creed.  Among  the  best  and  sweetest  of  these  are  Poor  Susan,  Ex- 
postulation and  Reply,  The  Tables  Turned,  Michael,  and  the  poems 
on  Lucy.  Few  more  beautiful  lyrics  have  been  written  than  Tlte 
Solitary  Reaper,  I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud,  and  She  Was  a  Phan- 
tom of  Delight.  His  longer  poems,  such  as  The  Excursion  and  The 
Prelude,  contain  many  passages  of  rare  power  and  beauty,  though 
others  are  tedious.  As  a  writer  of  sonnets,  Wordsworth's  rank  is  very 
high.  Saintsbury  says  of  these  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  Tin- 
tern  Abbey  and  the  Ode  on  Immortality,  they  contain  almost  his  best 
work,  and  that  the  finest  of  them  are  characterized  by  a  "  stately 
magnificence  "  surpassed  by  no  other  poet  —  not  even  Milton. 


LINES 

COMPOSED   A   FEW    MILES    ABOVE    TINTERN    ABBEY,    ON    REVISIT- 
ING  THE   BANKS   OF   THE   WYE   DURING   A    TOUR,    JULY    13,    1 798 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.  —  Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs,  5 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view   •  10 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines  15 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild ;  these  pastoral  farms, 


TINTERN   ABBEY    \  l6l 

Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 

Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din  25 

Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them. 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 
With  tranquil  restoration  :  —  feelings  too  30 

Of  unremembered  pleasure :  such,  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life. 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust,  35 

To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is  lightened  :  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — • 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep  45 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul ; 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft  —  so 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 


1 62  WORDSWORTH 

Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 

How  qft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee,  55 

0  sylvan  Wye  !    Thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  6c 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope,  65 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers  and  the  lonely  streams, 

Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man  70 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved. '  For  Nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all.  —  I  cannot  paint  75 

What  then  I  was.  .  The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock. 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

,That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
j  By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
i  Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  —  That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this  85 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 
Have  followed ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 


TINTERN  ABBEY  163 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;   but  hearing  oftentimes  90 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime  95 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world  105 

Of  eye,  and  ear,  —  both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul  no 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
K  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend,  ns 

My  dear,  dear  Friend ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  120 

My  dear,  dear  Sister  !  and  this  prayer  I  make. 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  inform  125 

The  mind  that  is  Mthin  us,  so  impress 


1 64  WORDSWORTH 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all  130 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ;  13s 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee  :  and,  in  after  years. 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure ;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh  !  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me,  14s 

And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance  — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream  150 

We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love  —  oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget,  iss 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs. 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake  ! 


ODE  ON  IMMORTALITY  165 

ODE 


INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY   FROM   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 
EARLY   CHILDHOOD 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  s 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ;  — 

Turn  whereso'er  I  may,  '' 

By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

II 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,  10 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair ;        •  is 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go,  - 

That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth.   ; 

in 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 


l66  WORDSWORTH 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday ;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy        35 
Shepherd-boy ! 


IV 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival,  40 

My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning,  45 

And  the  Children  are  culling  ^ 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm  :  — •  50 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  ! 

—  But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone ; 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet  5S 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 

The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star,  60 


ODE  ON  IMMORTALITY  167 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come  65 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows,  yo 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ;  75 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind,  80 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came.  8s 


vn 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 

See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies. 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  Mother's  kisses. 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  Father's  eyes  !  90 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 


l68  WORDSWORTH 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ;  95 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long  loo 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age,  105 

That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


vin 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity ;  no 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — ■ 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest !  ns 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest. 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 

Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave,  120 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke,  125 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight. 


ODE  ON  IMMORTALITY  169 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

IX 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers       \  130 

Is  something  that  doth  live,     ] 
That  nature  yet  remembers      j 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 

Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed  135 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast :  — 

Not  for  these  I  raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature  145 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature  j 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised :         I 
But  for  those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections,  150 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being  155 

Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake  ^ 

To  perish  never ;  i 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor,  \ 
Nor  Man  nor  Boy,  \ 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  I  160 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  !  — 'T 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 


lyo  WORDSWORTH 

Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither,  165 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound  170 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  !  17s 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find  .  180 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering ;  185 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

i  XI 

And  O,  ye  Foi:^tains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heajt  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ;  190 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  th^ ^Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret. 
Even  more^  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day  195 

Is  lo^ly  yet ; 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER  171 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortaHty ; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won.  2cx3 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


MY  HEART  LEAPS   UP  WHEN  I  BEHOLD 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old,  — 

Or  let  me  die  !  ^:^ 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; , 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


THE   SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field,  ^ 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  !      U- 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself ;  ^ 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  !  V» 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain,  •^ 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ;  A 
O  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound    ^ 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt    ^ 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands  ^^ 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt,     C-. 
Among  Arabian  sands :         V' 


172  WORDSWORTH 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard    (Si 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird  CL 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas     jl 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides.      ^  i6 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago  : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ?  24 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ;  — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 

And,*  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore. 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more.  32 


I  WANDERED   LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud  • 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
.  A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 


/' 


t 


TRE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN  173 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

OiJPViid  the  sparkhng  waves  in  glee : 

A  poetPcould  not  but  be  gay 

In  sucl?*a  jocund  company : 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  Httle  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought :  18 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils.  24 


THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR   SUSAN 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird.  4 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her  ?     She  sees 

A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees ; 

Bright  volumes  of  vapgr  through  Lothbury  glide. 

And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside.  8 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale 

Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail; 

And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 

The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves.  12 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, 

The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade ; 

The  stream  will  not  flow^  and  the  hfll  will  not  rise, 

And  the  colors  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes  !  16 


174  WORDSWORTH 

SONNETS 

LONDON,    1802    [to   MILTON] 

Milton  !  thou  should 'st  be  living  at  this  hour : 

England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 

Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  -Star,  and  dwelt  apart  : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,  SEPTEMBER  3,   l8o2 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare. 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock  or  hill ;  : 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  I 


SONNETS    .  175 

IT  IS   A   BEAUTEOUS   EVENING,    CALM   AND   FREE 

It  js  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

deathless  with  adoration ;  the  'broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its"  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  bropds  o'er  the  s^a.  5 

Listen  !  the*'mighty  Being  is  awake. 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  i^ke 

A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly^ 

Dear  Child  !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  heijp, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought,  10 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine. 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 

And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrin^ 

God  being  with  theeiwhen  we  ki^ow  it  not. 

THE  WORLD  IS   TOO   MUCH  WITH  US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us :  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 

The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ;  s 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 

It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ;  10 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


176  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE     (1772-1834) 

Of  all  the  poets  who  helped  to  usher  in  the  Romantic  movement, 
none  was  more  original  and  brilliant  than  Coleridge.  Possessed  of 
a  magnetic  presence,  a  penetrating  mind,  a  profound  spiritual  insight, 
and  a  wonderful  influence  over  most  of  those  with  whom  he  came  into 
contact,  he  had  a  native  genius  which  ought  to  have  placed  him  among 
the  first  of  English  authors.  But,  as  Carlyle  well  expresses  it,  "To 
the  man  himself  Nature  had  given,  in  high  measure,  the  seeds  of  a 
noble  endowment ;  and  to  unfold  it  had  been  forbidden  him."  For 
of  all  figures  in  our  English  pantheon  of  poets,  none  has  been  so  weak 
of  will,  so  destitute  of  executive  force,  so  incapable  of  sustained  effort, 
as  this  great  dreamer.  The  early  part  of  his  life  was  filled  with  vague 
plans  for  social  revolution ;  the  last  with  a  constant  struggle  against 
a  craving  for  opium. 

His  work  was  fragmentary  to  a  singular  degree.  Much  of  his 
poetry  is  unworthy  of  his  capabilities.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  nine- 
tenths  of  what  he  did  write  has  very  properly  been  forgotten.  But 
the  part  that  is  good,  most  of  it  written  during  a  single  twelvemonth 
when  the  poet  was  twenty-five  years  old,  is  marvellous,  ranking  with 
the  best  in  English  poetry.  The  imagery,  the  metre,  the  felicity  of 
phrase,  the  novelty,  the  suggestiveness,  the  splendid  creative  inspi- 
ration, are  of  the  highest,  the  inevitable  order.  But  Coleridge  was 
not  gifted  with  poetic  faculties  alone.  Critic,  philosopher,  theologian, 
journalist,  lecturer,  sparkling  conversationist  —  he  was  all  these, 
but  all  marred  by  the  fatal  flaw.  Carry  into  action  his  splendid 
theories,  or  bring  to  a  completion  his  brilliant  designs,  he  couid  not. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  his  frailties,  he  must  be  remembered  as  one  of  the 
most  effective  agents  in  revolutionizing  English  literary  taste  and  in 
changing  the  current  of  English  critical  and  philosophical  thought. 
He  had  the  gift  of  firing  others  to  do  what  he  could  not  do  himself. 
Wordsworth,  Southey,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Scott,  —  all  have  acknowledged 
their  great  debt  to  the  inspiration  received  from  Coleridge. 

1772-1804.  —  Coleridge  was  born  at  the  village  of  Ottery  St.  Mary 
in  Devonshire,  October,  1772.  His  father,  a  clergyman  and  school- 
master, died  when  the  boy  was  only  eight  years  old.  Two  years  later 
he  entered  Christ's  Hospital,  a  free  school  in  London,  where  he  was  a 
schoolmate  of  that  most  delightful  of  essayists,  Charles  laaib. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  was  enrolled  at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge, 
but  left  three  years  later  without  taking  a  degree.  About  this  time  he 
met  the  poet  southey,  then  a  student  at  Oxford,  and  the  two  young 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  177 

men  formed  wild  schemes  of  a  socialist  colony  in  America,  —  an  imder- 
taking  which  was  subsequently  given  up  for  lack  of  funds.  In  1795 
Coleridge  and  Southey  married  sisters,  and  the  former  at  length  settled 
down  in  Somersetshire,  where  he  became  intimate  with  Wordsworth 
and  united  with  him  in  writing  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  To  this  year, 
1 797-1 798,  belong  The  Ancient  Mariner  said  the  first  part  of  Christabel; 
also  Kubla  Khan,  a  short  and  very  beautiful  fragment,  composed 
(its  author  asserts)  in  a  dream.  Though  he  had  written  some  verse 
before  he  met  Wordsworth,  this  was  the  high-water  mark  of  Coleridge's 
poetry.  The  next  year,  with  Wordsworth  and  his  sister,  Coleridge 
went  to  Germany,  where  he  learned  the  language,  became  interested 
in  German  philosophy,  and  began  to  translate  Schiller's  Wallenstein. 
In  1801,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  he  made  his  home  in  the  Lake  dis- 
trict near  Wordsworth  and  Southey.  Here,  just  as  life  was  opening 
her  richest  possibilities,  he  unfortunately  took  for  an  attack  of  rheu- 
matism a  quack  medicine  containing  opium.  The  opium  habit  was 
henceforward  to  be  his  curse. 

1 804- 1 834.  —  Abandoning  his  family  to  the  care  of  Southey,  Cole- 
ridge spent  the  next  dozen  years  in  roaming  hither  and  thither,  in 
England  or  on  the  continent,  writing,  lecturing,  dreaming,  fighting 
his  terrible  habit.  In  these  years  his  writing  was  mostly  of  the  critical 
kind.  In  1816,  at  the  age  of  forty-four,  he  placed  himself  in  the  family 
of  a  London  physician  who  undertook  to  help  him  overcome  his  appe- 
tite for  opium.  That  year  proved  to  be  a  second  period  of  activity: 
it  witnessed  the  production  of  the  Biographia  Literaria,  his  most  no- 
table prose  work.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  spent  at  the  home  of  this 
good  Mr.  Gillman.  Though  unproductive  of  much  published  work, 
this  was  nevertheless  a  season  of  great  influence  and  inspiration  for 
the  many  "  young,  inquiring  men,"  who  were  wont  to  gather  around 
the  oracle  to  listen  to  his  wonderful  and  prophetic  utterances  con- 
cerning problems  of  philosophy  and  theology.  Coleridge  died  in 
July,  1834. 

His  best  poems  are  undoubtedly  those  which  were  written  during 
his  early  manhood,  while  he  was  enjoying  the  companionship  of 
Wordsworth.  Kubla  Khan  and  Christabel,  though  in  certain  passages 
of  an  almost  unearthly  beauty,  are  after  all  only  fragments.  But 
the  ballad  of  Love,  the  Hymn  before  Sunrise,  and  the  ode  on  France 
are  both  complete  and  highly  poetical.  His  masterpiece.  The  Ancient 
Mariner,  in  its  combination  of  mystery  and  sublimity,  of  marvellous 
descriptive  power  and  half -hidden  spiritual  truth,  stands  undoubtedly 
first  of  the  consciously  artistic  ballads  of  English  literature. 


178 


COLERIDGE 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

IN   SEVEN   PARTS 

Argument 

How  a  ship  having  passed  the  Line  was  driven  by  storms  to  the  cold  Country 
towards  the  South  Pole ;  and  how  from  thence  she  made  her  course  to  the  tropical 
Latitude  of  the  Great  Pacific  Ocean;  and  of  the  strange  things  that  befell;  and  in 
what  manner  the  Ancyent  Marinere  came  back  to  his  own  Country. 

Part  I 


An  ancient 
Mariner  meet- 
eth  three  Gal- 
lants bidden  to 
a  wedding- 
feast  and 
detaineth  one. 


It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 


"  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Hold  off  !  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon  !  " 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  is  spell- 
bound by  the 
eye  of  the  old 
seafaring  man, 
and  con- 
strained to 
hear  his  tale. 


He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye  • 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


179 


"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  Hghthouse  top. 


"  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left,  25 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  Higher  and  higher  every  day. 
Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  —  "  30 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  Mariner 
tells  how  the 
ship  sailed 
southward 
with  a  good 
wind  and  fair 
weather,  till  it 
reached  the 
line. 


The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall. 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 


35 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  heareth 
the  bridal  mu- 
sic ;  but  the 
Mariner  con- 
tinueth  his 
tale. 


The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 


40 


"  And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 


The  ship 
driven  By  a 
storm  toward 
the  south  pole. 


"  With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow,  45 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  50 


i8o 


COLERIDGE 


"  And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold : 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 


The  land  of 
ice,  and  of 
fearful  sounds 
where  no 
living  thing  . 
was  to  be 


"  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 


55 


"  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 
The  ice  was  all  around :  60 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 


Till  a  great 
seabird,  called 
the   Albatross, 
came  through 
the  snow-fog, 
and  was 
received  with 
great  joy  and 
hospitality. 


Andlo!  the 
Albatross 
proveth  a 
bird  of  good 
omen,  and 
followeth-  the 
ship  as  it 
returned 
northward 
through  fog 
and  floating 


"  At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 

As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul,  65 

We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

"  It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through  !  70 

''  And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow. 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play. 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

"  In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud,  75 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 
Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine." 


The  ancient 
Mariner  in- 
hospitably 
killeth  the 
pious  bird  of 
good  omen. 


"  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus  !  —  80 

Why  look'st  thou  so?  "  —  ''  With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


i8i 


Part  II 


"  The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right ; 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


8s 


"  And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 


go 


"  And  I  had  done  a  helHsh  thing. 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

*  Ah  wretch  !  '  said  they,  '  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! ' 


95 


His  shipmates 
cry  out  against 
the  ancient 
Mariner,  for 
killing  the 
bird  of  good 
luck. 


*'  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head. 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  loo 

'  'Twas  right,'  said  they,  '  such  birds  to  slay. 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. ' 

"  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 
The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst  los 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

"  Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea  !  no 


But  when  the 
fog  cleared  off, 
they  justify 
the  same,  and 
thus  make 
themselves 
accomplices 
in  the  crime. 


The  fair  breeze 
continues;  the 
ship  enters  the 
Pacific  Ocean, 
and  sails 
northward, 
even  till  it 
reaches  the 
line. 

The  ship  hath 
been  suddenly 
becalmed. 


"  All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon. 


l82 


COLERIDGE 


Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 


"  Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


"5 


And  the  Alba- 
tross begins  to 
be  avenged. 


'^  Water,  water,  everywhere. 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


"  The  very  deep  did  rot :   O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  sUmy  sea. 


125 


A  spirit  had 
followed  them ; 
one  of  the  in- 
visible inhabit- 
ants of  this 
planet,  neither 
departed  souls 
nor  angels ; 
concerning 
whom  the 
learned  Jew, 
Josephus,  and 
the  Platonic 
Constantino- 
politan, 
Michael 
Psellus,  may 
be  consulted. 
They  are  very 
numerous,  and 
there  is  no 
climate  or  ele- 
ment without 
one  or  more. 
The  ship- 
mates, in  their 
sore  distress 
would  fain 
throw  the 
whole  guilt  on 
the  ancient 


"  About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white.  130 

*'  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

"  And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought,  135 

Was  withered  at  the  root ; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 

We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


'*  Ah  !  well-a-day  !  wha,t  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


140 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


183 


Part  III 


*'  There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  !  14s 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

When,  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

"  At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ;  150 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 

A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 


Mariner:  in 
sign  whereof 
they  hang  the 
dead  sea-bird 
round  his 
neck. 

The  ancient 
Mariner  be- 
holdeth  a  sign 
in  the  element 
afar  off. 


"  A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 


iss 


*'  With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,  160 

And  cried,  '  A  sail !  a  sail ! ' 

"  With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 

Agape  they  heard  me  call : 

Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in,  165 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 


At  its  nearer 
approach,  it 
seemeth  him 
to  be  a  ship; 
and  at  a  dear 
ransom  he 
freeth  his 
speech  from 
the  bonds  of 
thirst. 


A  flash  of  joy. 


"  '  See  !  see  ! '  (I  cried)  '  she  tacks  no  more  ! 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! ' 


170 


And  horror  fol- 
lows ;  for  can  it 
be  a  ship  that 
comes  onward 
¥dthout  wind 
or  tide? 


"  The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 
The  day  was  well-nigh  done  ! 


i84 


COLERIDGE 


Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 


175 


It  seemeth  him 
but  the  skele- 
ton of  a  ship. 


"  And  Straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 

(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 

As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 

With  broad  and  burning  face.  i8o 


And  its  ribs 
are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the 
setting  Sun. 
The  Spectre- 
Woman  and 
her  death- 
mate,  and  no 
other  on 
board  the 
skeleton  ship. 
Like  vessel, 
like  crew ! 


Death  and 
Life-in-Death 
have  diced 
for  the  ship's 
crew,  and  she 
(the  latter) 
winneth  the 
ancient 
Mariner. 

No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of  the 
Sun. 


At  the  rising 
of  the  Moon. 


"'Alas  ! '  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
'  How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

"  *  Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun    185 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?  and  are  there  tv/o  ? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ?  ' 


"  Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

"  The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

'  The  game  is  done  !   I've  won  !   I've  won  ! ' 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

"  The  Sun's  rim  dips ;   the  stars  rush  out ; 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

"  We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 
Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 


190 


195 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


i8s 


My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  !  205 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white, 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star  210 

Within  the  nether  tip. 


"  One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

"  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

"  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly,  — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  I  '* 


215 


one  after  an- 
other, 


his  shipmates 
drop  down 
dead. 


But  Life-in- 
Death  begins 
her  work  on 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 


Part  IV 

"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  !  225 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown. 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 

And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown."  — 

"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest !        230 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

"  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  ! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony.  235 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  feareth 
that  a  spirit  is 
talking  to 
him ;  but  the 
ancient 
Mariner  as- 
sureth  him  of 
his  bodily  life, 
and  pro- 
ceedeth  to 
relate  his 
horrible  pen- 
ance. 


i86 


COLERIDGE 


He  despiseth     "  The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

the  creatures  -;  i     t  i  t 

of  the  cabn,      And  they  all  dead  did  he : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on ;   and  so  did  I. 


and  envieth 
that  they 
should  live, 
and  so  many 
lie  dead. 


"  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 


"  I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 


245 


"  I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky,  250 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


But  the  curse     "  fhc  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

liveth  for  him  i      t  i     i 

in  the  eye  of      Nor  rot  uor  reek  did  they : 

men.   ^j^^  ^^^^  ^.^j^  which  they  looked  on  me 

Had  never  passed  away. 


25s 


In  his  loneli- 
ness and  fixed- 
ness he 
yearneth  to- 
wards the 
journeying 
Moon,  and 
the  stars  that 
still  sojourn, 
yet  still  move 
onward;  and 
everywhere 
the  blue  sky 
belongs  to 
them,  and  is 
their  ap- 
pointed rest, 
and  their 
native  country 
and  their  own 


"  An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh  !   more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  !  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky. 
And  nowhere  did  abide :  , 

Softly  she  was  going  up,  265 

And  a  star  or  two  beside  — 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


187 


''  Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 


*.<< 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 
I  watched  the  water-snakes : 
They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white. 
And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


275 


natural  homes, 
which  they  en- 
ter unan- 
nounced, as 
lords  that  are 
certainly  ex- 
pected and  yet 
there  is  a  silent 
joy  at  their  ar- 
rival. 

By  the  light  of 
the  Moon  he 
beholdeth 
God's 

creatures  of 
the  great  calm. 


"  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam ;   and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


280 


"  O  happy  living  things  !   no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me. 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 


285 


Their  beauty 
and  their 
happiness. 


He  blesseth 
them  in  his 
heart. 


"  The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


290 


The  spell  be- 
gins to  break. 


Part  V 


"  Oh  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 


29s 


1 88 


COLERIDGE 


By  grace  of  the  ''  The  siUv  buckcts  OH  the  dcck, 

holy  Mother,  n^^         ^       /       ■,  .        , 

the  ancient  That  had  SO  long  remained, 

freshS'with  ^  I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

'^^'  And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 


300 


He  heareth 
sounds  and 
seeth  strange 
sights  and 
commotions 
in  the  sky  and 
the  element. 


"  My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

"  I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs: 
I  was  so  light  —  almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

"  And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind : 
It  did  not  come  anear ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


305 


310 


"  The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen. 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 


31S 


"  And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud ;  320 

The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 


"  The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  Moon  was  at  its  side : 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag. 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 


325 


The  bodies  of  "  The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 

the  ship  screw  i         i  .  ,  , 

are  inspirited,    Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  I 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


189 


Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  330 

"  They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream. 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

"  The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on ;        335 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes. 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

"  The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope 
But  he  said  nought  to  me.  —  " 


and  the  ship 
moves  on ; 


"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  !  "  345 

"  Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again. 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

"  For  when  it  dawned  —  they  dropped  their  arms,  350 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths. 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 


but  not  by  the 
souls  of  the 
men,  nor  by 
daemons  of 
earth  or  middle 
air,  but  by  a 
blessed  troop 
of  angelic 
spirits,  sent 
down  by  the 
invocation 
of  the  guardian 
saint. 


"  Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound. 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

"  Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing ; 


355 


190 


COLERIDGE 


The   lonesome 
Spirit  from  the 
south  pole  car- 
ries on  the  ship 
as  far  as  the 
line,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the 
angelic  troop, 
but  still  re- 
quireth  ven- 
geance. 


Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoni^ig  ! 

"  And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  / 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute.   " 

"  It  ceased ;   yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune.  < 

"  Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on. 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

"  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  sHd ;   and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune. 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

"  The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean ; 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion  — 
Backwards  and  forwards  haK  her  length, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

"  Then,  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 
She  made  a  sudden  bound : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 


360 


36s 


370 


375 


38c 


385 


390 


THE  ANCIENT  MAPINER  191 

"  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay,  P.^.^°^?'"„ 

_  fj                  ^        ,      ,                                   "^  '  Spirit's  fellow- 

^  nave  not  to  declare ;  djemons,  the 

But  ere  my  living  life  returned,  395   habftaius  of 

I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned,  take^p^Un 

Two  voices  in  the  air.  twoTJhe'r'^ 

relate,  one  to 

'  the  other,  that 

"  '  Is  it  he  ?  '  quoth  one,  ^  Is  this  the  man  ?  STeavy°*^ 

By  Him  who  died  on  cross,  Marhfer hath' 

With  his  cruel  bow,  he  laid  full  low  400  tolSeXiat'^ 

The  harmless  Albatross.  fituraeS° 


southward. 


"  '  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.'  405 

"  The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew : 

Quoth  he,  *  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 


Part  VI 

First  Voice 

"  *  But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again,  410 

Thy  soft  response  renewing  — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ?  ' 

Second  Voice 

"  *  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ;  4^5 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast  — 


192 


COLERIDGE 


"  '  If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 


420 


The  Mariner 
hath  been  cast 
into  a  trance; 
for  the  angelic 
power  causeth 
the  vessel  to 
drive  north- 
ward faster 
than  human 
life  could 
endure. 


First  Voice 

"  '  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ?  ' 

Second  Voice 

'  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 


425 


*'  *  Fly,  brother,  fly  !   more  high,  more  high  ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


The  super- 
natural motion 
is  retarded ; 
the  Mariner 
awakes,  and 
his  penance 
begins  anew. 


"  I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on  430 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high ; 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 


*'  All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 


435 


"  The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


440 


The  curse  is 
finally  ex- 
piated. 


"  And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green. 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen  — • 


445 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


193 


"  Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on. 
And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 
Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 


450 


"  But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 


455 


"  It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring  — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 


"  Swiftly,  swiftly  fiew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze  — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 


460 


"  Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  lighthouse  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 


465 


And  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth  his 
native 
country. 


"  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray  — 
'  O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway.' 


470 


"  The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 


475 


"  The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock : 


194 


COLERIDGE 


The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 


The  angelic 
spirits  leave 
the  dead 
bodies, 


and  appear  in 
their  own 
forms  of  light. 


"  And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light,     480 

Till,  rising  from  the  same, 

Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colors  came. 

"  A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those  crimson  shadows  were :  485 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck  — 

Oh  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 


"  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 


490 


"  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand ; 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

Each  one  a  lovely  light ;  495 

"  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 
No  voice  did  they  impart  — 
No  voice ;   but  oh  !   the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 


"But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars ; 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 


500 


''  The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 


505 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER  I95 

"  I  saw  a  third  —  I  heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the  Hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns  sio 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

Part  VII 

"  This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood  S'e^vSS"'^  °^ 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea.  515 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree.       • 

*'  He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve  — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  :  520 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

"  The  skiff-boat  neared :   I  heard  them  talk, 
'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair,  525 

That  signal  made  but  now  ?  ' 

"  '  Strange,  by  my  faith  !  '   the  Hermit  said  —      ?h?sM*^Tdth 
'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  !  wonder. 

The  planks  look  warped  !   and  see  those  sails. 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  !  530 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them. 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

'* '  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along ; 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow,  53s 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 


196 


COLERIDGE 


"  '  Dear  Lord  !   it  hath  a  fiendish  look  — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
'  I  am  a-feared  '  —  '  Push  on,  push  on  ! ' 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 


540 


"  The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship. 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 


545 


The  ship  sud- 
denly sinketh. 


"  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  is 
saved  in  the 
Pilot's  boat. 


"  Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound,  550 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But,  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat.  555 


*'  Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

"  I  moved  my  lips  —  the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

"  I  took  the  oars :   the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

*  Ha  !   ha  !  '   quoth  he,  '  full  plain  I  see. 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 


560 


565 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


197 


"  And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 


S70 


"  '  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy* man  !  ^ 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow.  575 

'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say  — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?  ' 

*'  Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony. 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ;  580 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  ear- 
nestly entreat- 
eth  the  Hermit 
to  shrieve 
him ;  and  the 
penance  of  life 
falls  on  him. 


"  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns ; 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 

This  heart  within  me  burns.  585 

"  I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 

I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 


And  ever  and 
anon  through- 
out his  future 
life  an  agony 
constraineth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
land, 


**  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  ! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there : 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are : 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 


595 


"  O  Wedding-Guest !   this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 


600 


198 


COLERIDGE 


and  to  teach, 
by  his  own  ex- 
ample, love 
and  reverence 
to  all  things 
that  God 
made  and 
loveth. 


"  O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  !  — 

''  To  walk  together  to  the  kirk,  605 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends. 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

"  Farewell,  farewell !   but  this  I  tell  610 

To  thee,  thou  Wedding- Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

"  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small ;  615 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone :   and  now  the  Wedding-Guest  620 

Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned. 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 

A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn.  625 


KUBLA  KHAN:   OR,  A  VISION  IN  A  DREAM 


A   FRAGMENT 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 


KUBLA   KHAN  I99 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 

With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 

And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree ; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,  10 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 

A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted  is 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething. 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced ; 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst  20 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion  25 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war !  30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  3S 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,  40 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 


200  SOUTHEY 

Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 

That  with  music  loud  and  long,  45 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 

That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware !    Beware ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair !  50 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

ROBERT   SOUTHEY   (1774-1843) 

Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey,  from  their  residence  in  the 
Lake  district  of  Westmoreland,  were  known  as  the  Lake  Poets.  Though 
Southey's  poetry  was  one  of  the  animating  influences  in  Romanticism, 
it  is  intrinsically  of  less  merit  than  that  of  his  brother  "  Lakers  " ; 
his  prose  is  much  better,  as  in  the  famous  Life  of  Nelson.  His  longer 
poems  —  Thalaba,  The  Curse  of  Kehama,  Modoc,  and  Roderick  — 
are  highly  romantic  (the  first  two  oriental)  in  subject  and  coloring. 
To-day  he  is  known  by  several  of  his  shorter  poems:  The  Cataract 
of  Lodore,  Well  of  St.  Keyne,  Inchcape  Rock,  Bishop  Hatto,  and,  most 
popular,  The  Battle  of  Blenheim. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   BLENHEIM 

It  was  a  summer  evening. 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun. 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine.  6 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM  20I 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found ; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round.  12 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 
And,  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory.  18 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden. 

For  there's  many  here  about ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ! 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
''  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory."  ^  24 

*'  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 
Young  Peterkin,  he  cries ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 
With  wonder- waiting  eyes ; 
**  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.'*  30 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory.  36 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head.  42 


202  LAMB 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory.  48 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory.  S4 

''*'  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene ;  " 
"  Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmine ; 
"  Nay  .  .  nay.     .  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory.  60 

"  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?  " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory."  66 

CHARLES  LAMB   (1775-1834) 

Charles  Lamb,  the  friend  of  Coleridge  and  admirer  of  Wordsworth, 
the  most  exquisite  and  lovable  of  English  essayists,  one  of  the  noblest 
and  simplest  of  gentlemen,  and  the  most  unselfish  of  brothers,  toiled 
for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  as  a  clerk  in  a  great  commercial  house, 
surmounting  drudgery,  disappointment,  and  misfortune  with  gentle 
cheerfulness  and  sympathetic  humor.  To  devoted  care  for  his  talented 
sister  Mary,  who  in  a  fit  of  insanity  had  killed  her  mother,  Lamb 
sacrificed  his  life.     He  never  married.     "  At  times,"  writes  Professor 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES  203 

Long,  "  the  malady  would  return  to  Mary,  giving  sure  warning  of 
its  terrible  approach;  and  then  brother  and  sister  might  be  seen 
walking  silently,  hand  in  hand,  to  the  gates  of  the  asylum,  their  cheeks 
wet  with  tears.  One  must  remember  this,  as  well  as  Lamb's  humble 
lodgings  and  the  drudgery  of  his  daily  work,  if  he  would  appreciate 
the  pathos  of  The  Old  Familiar  Faces,  or  the  heroism  which  shines 
through  the  most  human  and  the  most  delightful  essays  in  our  lan- 
guage, —  the  Essays  of  EliaJ' 


THE  OLD   FAMILIAR  FACES 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  schooldays ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing. 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces.  6 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her  — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 

Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces.  12 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces  —  18 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  aU  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


204  THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 


LEIGH  HUNT    (i 784-1859) 

Leigh  Hunt,  like  Charles  Lamb,  is  better  known  for  his  prose  than 
for  his  verse.  An  essayist,  critic,  and  journalist,  he  wrote  volumi- 
nously for  many  years,  often  radically  and  always  hastily ;  but  his 
sincere  if  somewhat  florid  appreciation  of  Romantic  poetry  was  an 
inspiration  to  men  who  were  far  greater  poets  than  he.  Of  a  Hvely 
and  sanguine  temperament,  of  magnetic  enthusiasms  and  a  luxurious 
but  not  profound  imagination,  he  seemed  always  to  be  intoxicated 
with  his  ideas  and  emotions.  His  vision  of  Abou  Ben  Adhem  is 
among  the  best  known  short  poems  in  the  language. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 

-An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold.  5 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  What  writest  thou?  "     The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord. 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord."  ic 

"  And  is  mine  one?  "  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night  is 

It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light. 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed,  — • 
And,  lo !  Ben  Adhem 's  name  led  all  the  rest ! 


GEORGE  GORDON   BYRON  205 


2.  THE  POETS  OF  SOCIAL  REVOLT 

The  variations  of  mood  and  treatment  in  the  Romantic  poetry 
of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  due  rather  to  the 
distinctive  temperaments  of  individual  poets  than  to  any  marked 
divergence  of  poetic  "  tendencies  "  or  "  schools."  There  is,  however, 
sufiicient  kinship  between  certain  poets  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  cen- 
tury to  justify  the  heading  of  this  sketch. 

As  we  have  seen,  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  were  early  affected 
by  an  enthusiasm  for  the  French  Revolution  and  for  the  spirit  of 
freedom  and  equality  which  it  seemed  to  breathe.  But  these  poets 
were  soon  turned  from  their  inclination  by  the  violence  which  accom- 
panied the  Revolution,  and  by  a  profound  disappointment  in  the  re- 
sults of  the  struggle.  It  was  reserved  for  two  later  writers,  byron 
and  SHELLEY,  to  divine  and  express  the  poetic  significance  of  this 
revolutionary  spirit.  These  young  men  were  poets  of  brilliant  genius 
and  of  independent  spirit.  Both  were  devoted  lovers  of  liberty,  and 
both  carried  their  love  of  liberty  so  far  as  to  be  convinced  of  the  neces- 
sity of  breaking  away  from  the  traditions  —  and  from  what  they  re- 
garded as  the  unnatural  restraints  —  of  organized  society.  To  be 
sure,  their  distinctive  differences  of  character  were  as  marked  as  their 
points  of  likeness.  Byron  was  a  man  of  ungoverned  passions,  animal 
enthusiasms,  tremendous  egotism,  cynical  and,  sometimes,  pessimis- 
tic, temperament.  Shelley,  on  the  other  hand,  was  averse  to  sensual 
indulgence  and  generous  to  a  fault;  he  seemed  rather  a  dweller  in 
some  ethereal  world  than  a  creature  of  this  earth.  As  a  writer,  Byron 
was  naturally  glorious  in  rhetoric  but  hasty  and  careless  in  composi- 
tion; charged  with  intellectual  force,  but  deficient  in  imagination 
and  poetic  earnestness ;  Shelley  was  a  dreamer,  imaginative,  unprac- 
tical, but  an  exquisite  artist,  a  poet  in  every  fibre.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
these  differences  in  character  and  art,  each  was,  in  his  own  way,  a  poet 
of  radicalism  or  revolt. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON    (i  788-1824) 

Of  all  English  poets  none  has  been  acclaimed  so  early  in  his  career 
with  such  unstinted  and  general  applause  as  was  Lord  Byron.  Unlike 
Keats  or  Wordsworth  or  Browning,  whose  growth  into  popular  favor 
was  slow,  Byron  achieved  that  favor  almost  at  a  single  leap.  Ashe  him- 
self says,  after  the  publication  of  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 


ao6  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

"  I  awoke  to  find  myself  famous."  His  poems  were  received  abroad 
even  more  enthusiastically  than  at  home.  Taine,  the  great  French 
critic,  declares  that  "  all  styles  appear  dull  beside  his,  "  and  that  "he 
is  so  great  that  from  him  alone  we  shall  learn  more  truths  of  his  coun- 
try than  from  all  the  rest  combined  "  ;  even  Goethe,  the  German  poet 
and  critic,  has  said  that  the  English  "  can  show  no  poet  who  is  to  be 
compared  with  him."  Byron's  influence  over  the  literature  of  foreign 
nations  has  been  very  great  indeed.  In  continental  Europe  his  repu- 
tation rivalled  even  that  of  Shakespeare,  and  it  has  scarcely  waned 
even  to  the  present  day. 

Not  so  in  England,  Despite  his  btilliant  genius  and  wonderful 
poetic  ability,  Byron's  decline  in  the  favor  of  both  English  critic  and 
English  reader  was  as  sure  as  his  ascent  was  rapid.  Nor  are  the  causes 
far  to  seek.  Byron  was  a  poet  of  the  Revolution.  He  caught  the 
spirit  of  his  age  in  representing  the  reaction  of  a  new  century  against 
cant  and  hypocrisy,  in  society,  religion,  and  politics.  He  wrote,  more- 
over, with  an  assured  strength,  a  spirited  abandon,  a  splendid  "  sweep 
and  energy  "  that  at  first  carried  all  before  him.  His  subjects  were 
pleasing ;  his  lyric  and  narrative  intensity  and  his  reckless  humor 
compelled  attention ;  his  fascinating  personality  shone  clear  and  win- 
some through  every  line  of  w^ork.  And  so,  when  his  star  arose,  his 
contemporaries  were  first  attracted;  then  they  marvelled,  then  en- 
thusiastically admired.  But  he  wrote  with  little  artistic  finish ;  and 
many,  especially  those  at  whose  social  and  religious  ideals  he  had 
jeered,  denounced  his  poetry  as  lacking  in  high  seriousness,  spirituality, 
comprehension  of  life,  natural  and  human,  reverence  for  the  decent 
and  divine.  These  charges  were  not  altogether  just:  his  style  is 
rapid,  nervous,  direct,  incisive,  and  exhilarating.  Though  his  Titanic 
heroes  in  their  revolt  against  authority  may  be  sometimes  theatrical, 
sometimes  profane,  he  shows  in  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  and  Prome- 
theus a  real  sympathy  for  the  martyrs  of  mankind ;  in  the  later  cantos 
of  Childe  Harold  he  sounds  the  note  of  patriotism  and  historic  woe ; 
in  many  a  poem,  the  diapason  of  nature  in  her  changing  moods. 
Much  of  his  poetry,  to  be  sure,  was  written  for  the  fashion  and  the 
time;  that  of  course  fails  now  of  its  appeal.  His  contemporaries 
of  the  sober  kind  found  him  (and  with  reason)  not  infrequently  flip- 
pant. In  his  Don  Juan,  which  some  consider  his  best  and  most 
characteristic  work,  he  seemed  even  to  delight  in  defying  the  proprie- 
ties. His  cynicism  is  often  tedious,  and  his  sincerity  sometimes  doubt- 
ful. So  his  star  has  for  a  season  waned.  But  it  is  not  burnt  out ; 
merely  eclipsed.  As  younger  and  more  conventional  poets  pass  from 
the  zenith  and  the  fashion  of  radicalism  returns,  Byron  will  again 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  207 

be  increasingly  read  and  enjoyed.  His  ChUde  Harold  will  live  as  long 
as  the  historic  sense  remains  with  man ;  and  Chillon,  Mazeppa,  The 
Prophecy  of  Dante,  and  Don  Juan,  while  man  is  virile,  adventurous, 
freedom-loving,  passionate,  and  heroic. 

1 788-1812.  —  George  Gordon  Byron  was  born  in  London,  January, 
1788,  the  descendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  houses  of  English  nobiUty. 
His  father.  Captain  Byron  of  the  English  army,  was  a  man  of  reckless 
and  dissolute  habits;  his  mother  was  a  haughty  and  very  foolish 
woman,  quite  incapable  of  training  her  son  wisely.  On  the  death 
of  his  great-uncle,  the  "  wicked  "  Lord  Byron,  George,  when  only  ten 
years  old,  came  into  the  title  and  estates  of  the  family.  Not  long  after 
this  he  went  to  school  at  Harrow,  and  afterward  to  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  remained  about  three  years.  We  may  imagine 
him  at  this  time  a  handsome,  high-spirited  boy,  headstrong,  self-willed, 
passionate.  Owing  to  a  deformation  of  one  foot,  he  was  soniewhat 
lame;  yet  he  was  athletic  and  reckless  in  sports.  When  nineteen 
years  of  age,  he  issued  a  collection  of  verses  entitled  Hours  of  Idleness. 
This  the  Edinburgh  Review  ridiculed  in  a  way  so  exasperating  to  the 
young  poet  that  two  years  later  he  published  a  briUiant  satirical  reply 
in  verse,  which  he  called  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  This 
same  year,  1809,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  imme- 
diately thereafter  departed  for  travel  through  the  countries  around 
the  Mediterranean,  a  journey  in  which  he  spent  two  years. 

1 81 2-1 8 1 6.  —  Returning  to  England  with  the  first  two  cantos  of 
The  Pilgrimage  of  Childe  Harold,  Byion  was  induced  to  publish  them, 
and,  as  a  result,  achieved  unparalleled  popularity.  The  poem  itself  is 
characteristic — full  of  the  author's  individuaUty — and  is  based  upon 
impressions  of  his  journey.  During  the  next  four  years  he  wrote 
half  a  dozen  tales  in  verse,  The  Corsair,  The  Siege  of  Corinth,  etc, ; 
each  new  production  was  hailed  with  increased  delight  and  enthusiasm. 
In  181 5  he  married  a  Miss  Milbanke,  but  the  union  proved  most  un- 
happy, and  the  couple  separated  within  a  year.  English  society  sided 
with  the  wife,  and  Byron  now  found  himself  as  unpopular  as  he  had 
before  been  popular.  Hurt  and  angry,  in  18 16  he  left  England,  never 
to  return. 

1816-1824.  —  During  this  exile  his  pen  was  even  more  active  than 
before.  First,  he  spent  several  months  at  Geneva  with  Shelley  and 
his  wife,  and  wrote  The  Prisoner  of  Chilian  and  the  third  canto  of 
Childe  Harold. .  The  next  year  he  went  to  Venice,  where,  in  the  midst 
of  a  life  of  reckless  dissipation,  he  managed  to  finish  his  Manfred  and 
another  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  and  to  follow  these  with  Mazeppa 


2o8  BYRON 

and  the  first  part  of  Don  Juan.  We  next  see  him  at  Ravenna  plotting , 
against  the  Austrian  rulers  of  Italy,  then  at  Pisa  with  Shelley  again, 
and  finally  at  Genoa.  The  Greeks  were  at  this  time  struggling  for 
independence  from  Turkey,  and  Byron  with  characteristic  impetuosity 
threw  himself  into  their  cause.  Late  in  1823  he  embarked  for  Greece, 
where  he  was  invited  to  a  congress  at  Salona,  which  had  for  its  pur- 
pose to  offer  him  the  crown  of  Greece.  But  enfeebled  by  exposure 
and  disease  he  was  even  then  upon  his  death-bed.  His  life  ended  at 
Missolonghi,  April  19,  1824,  —  just  as  it  was  beginning  to  give  prom- 
ise of  some  practical  service  to  humanity. 

Byron  is  best  represented  by  his  longer  poems ;  but  these  are  of 
such  a  nature  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  make  extracts  from  them  which 
will  preserve  the  flavor  of  the  whole.  Of  the  Childe  Harold,  the 
strongest  canto  is  undoubtedly  the  third,  which  contains  some  of  the 
poet's  best  descriptive  and  reflective  stanzas.  Indeed,  in  the  third 
and  fourth  cantos  are  to  be  found  passages  that  deserve  to  be  ranked 
with  the  best  poetry  of  the  century.  Manfred,  another  of  his  longer 
poems,  is  well  worth  reading  in  its  entirety.  Some  of  his  shorter 
lyrics  have  the  ring  of  inevitable  art,  —  simple,  passionate,  and  beau- 
tiful, such  as  Fare  Thee  Well,  She  Walks  in  Beauty,  Know  Ye  the 
Land,  The  Isles  of  Greece,  Maid  of  Athens,  and  the  Lines  on  Complet- 
ing my  Thirty-Sixth  Year.  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  which  is  given 
below,was  written  at  the  most  fruitful  period  of  his  life.  It  has  not  the 
love-interest  or  the  passion  for  reckless  adventure  of  many  of  Byron's 
poems,  yet  it  furnishes  a  fine  example  of  his  powers  of  description, 
his  simplicity  of  style,  his  directness  and  vigor,  and  his  enthusiasm 
for  liberty  of  conscience.  The  few  stanzas  from  Childe  Harold  — 
we  wish  they  could  be  more  —  are  added  merely  to  give  the  student 
a  taste  of,  and  for,  that  splendid  poem. 


THE   PRISONER   OF   CHILLON 

I 

My  hair  is  grey,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears : 
My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILWN  209 

For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned,  and  barred  —  forbidden  fare ;  10 

But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race  15 

In  darkness  found  a  dwelling  place ; 
We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one ; 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage ;  20 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field. 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed, 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast,  25 

Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 


n 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould 

In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 

There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  grey. 

Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray,  30 

A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way. 

And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 

Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 

Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  (^amp, 

Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp :  35 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring. 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain. 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away,  40 

Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 


2IO  BYRON 

Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 

Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 

For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 

I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score  .  45 

When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 

And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

in 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 

And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alone ; 

We  could  not  move  a  single  pace,  50 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face. 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 

That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight : 

And  thus  together  —  yet  apart. 

Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart,  S5 

'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 

To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech. 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 

With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old,  -  60 

Or  song  heroically  bold ; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free,  6s 

As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be : 

It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three. 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest  70 

I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved. 

Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  211 

To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven  —  75 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me  80 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)  — > 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone. 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun :  8s 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe  90 

Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 

But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 

Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 

Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood,  95 

And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy :  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine : 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine :  100 

But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  rehcs  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf ; 

To  him  his  dungeon  was  a  gulf,  105 

And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


VI 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 


212  BYRON 

Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 

Thus  much  the  fathom-hne  was  sent  no 

From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake  ns 

The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high  120 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free.  125 

vn 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 

I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 

It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunters'  fare,  130 

And  for  the  like  had  Uttle  care : 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 

Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 

Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 

Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years,  13s 

Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 

Lik^  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 

But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 

These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb ; 

My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould  140 

Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold. 

Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 

The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side ;  ^ 

But  why  delay  the  truth  ?  —  he  died. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  213 

I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head,  14s 

Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead, 

Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 

To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 

He  died  —  and  they  unlocked  his  chain. 

And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave  150 

Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 

I  begged  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 

His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 

Might  shine  —  it  was  a  fooHsh  thought, 

But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought,  iss 

That  even  in  death  his  f reeborn  breast 

In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 

They  coldly  laughed  —  and  laid  him  there : 

The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above  160 

The  being  we  so  much  did  love ; 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 

Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

vni 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour,  165 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race. 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought. 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be  170 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away.  17s 

Oh,  God !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood :  — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean  180 


214  BYRON 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

IVe  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread ; 

But  these  were  horrors  —  this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such  —  but  sure  and  slow ;  185 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek. 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak. 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender  —  kind. 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom  igo 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray ; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright ;  195 

And  not  a.  word  of  murmur  —  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost  200 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness. 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear  —  205 

I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished ; 

I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound,  210 

And  rushed  to  him :  —  I  found  him  not, 

/  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 

I  only  lived  —  /  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 

The  last  —  the  sole  —  the  dearest  link  215 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink. 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race. 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  21 5 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath  — 

My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breathe :  220 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — 

A  frantic  feeling  when  we  know  225 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope  —  but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death.  230 

IX 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 

I  know  not  well  —  I  never  knew : 
First  came  the  loss  of  light  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling  —  none  —  235 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  grey ; 
It  was  not  night  —  it  was  not  day  —  240 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness  —  without  a  place ; 
There  were  no  stars  —  no  earth  —  no  time  —  245 

No  check  —  no  change  —  no  good  —  no  crime  — 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless !  250 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  — 
It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 


2l6  BYRON 

It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes  255 

/  Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 

And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 

I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 

But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 

My  senses  to  their  wonted  track ;  260 

I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 

Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 

I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 

Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 

But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came  265 

That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me !  270 

I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seemed  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when  275 

None  lived  to  love  me  so  again. 
And,  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink. 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine,  280 

But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise ; 
For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !   the  while        285 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  — 
I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  'twas  mortal  —  well  I  knew.  290 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  21 7 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 
Lone  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day,  195 

While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate,  300 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 

I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe. 

But  so  it  was :  —  my  broken  chain 

With  Hnks  unfastened  did  remain,  30s 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 

Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one,  310 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 

Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod. 

My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod ; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 

My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed,  315 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 

And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all  320 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me : 


2l8  BYRON 

No  child  —  no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery ;  325 

I  thought  of  this  and  I  was  glad, 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad  ; 

But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 

To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 

Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high  330 

The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

xm 

I  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same, 

They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 

I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 

On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below,  335 

And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 

I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 

O'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush ; 

I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ;  340 

And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor,  345 

But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing. 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue.  350 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall. 
And  they  seemed  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly ;  35s 

And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And,  when  I  did  descend  again. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  .CHILLON  219 

The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode  360 

Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 

It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 

Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,  — 

And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppressed, 

Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest.  36s 


XIV 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count  —  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free ;  370 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last,  37s 

And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own !  / 

And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home :  380 

With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade. 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play. 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place,  3^5 

And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell : 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends  390 

To  make  us  what  we  are  :  —  even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


2  20  BYRON 

STANZAS   FROM   CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE 
(canto  III,  xxi-xxviii:  waterlog) 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;    and  when  5 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No ;  'twas  but  the  wind,  lo 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet.  — 
But  hark  !  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more,  is 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer",  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  arm  I  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar  I 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;  he  did  hear.  20 

That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear. 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier,  '         25 

And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell. 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress. 

And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago  30 

Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ;  0 


CHILDE  HAROLD  221 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  Ufe  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated :  who  could  guess 
li  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes,  35 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ;  40 

And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb. 
Or  whispering  with  white  Ups  —  "  The  foe  !    They  come  !  they 
come ! "  45 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  Gathering  "  rose, 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes ; 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fills  so 

Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years. 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears  ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves,  55 

Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow  6c 

In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe,  1 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay,  65 


222  .  BYRON 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalHng  in  arms  —  the  day- 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay,  7c 

Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent ! 

(canto  IV,  cxxxix-cxLv:  THE  coliseum) 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran. 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws,  ^  s 

And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  —  on  battle-plains  or  Hsted  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie :  lo 

He  leans  upon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one,  15 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ;  20 

He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize. 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother  —  he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  —  25 

All  this  rushed  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged  ?  —  Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 


CHILDE  HAROLD  223 

But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roared  or  murmured  Hke  a  mountain-stream  30 

Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here  where  the  Roman  miUion's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crushed  —  walls  bowed  —  35 

And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 

Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared ; 

Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 

And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeared.  40 

Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared  ? 
•  Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 

When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared ; 

It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft  away.     45 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear,  so 

Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, — 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot  —  'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand ;  55 

When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 
And  when  Rome  falls  —  the  World."     From  our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still  60 

On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all : 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill. 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what  ye  will. 


224  BYRON 

(canto  IV,  CLXxviii-CLXxxiv :  THE  ocean) 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more,  5 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  ha  ve  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll !  lo 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own,  is 

When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him  —  thou  dost  arise  20 

And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling,*  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies  25 

His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  —  there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 

Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake 

And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals,  30 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 

Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 


CHILDE  HAROLD  '  225 

Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war : 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar  35 

Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey  40 

The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :  -^  not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now.  as 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests :  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

Dark-heaving ;  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  —  so 

The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean  !  and  my  joy  ss 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear,  60 

For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


226  '  BYRON 

KNOW  YE  THE  LAND? 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  C3^ress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime  ? 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 

Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine,  s 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine ; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed  with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute :  lo 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky. 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine. 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ?  is 

'Tis  the  clime  of  the  East ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun  — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 
Oh  !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 


SHE   WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  227 


And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow,  \ 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent !  18 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  (1792-1822) 

The  quality  of  Shelley's  genius  and  the  peculiarity  of  his  work  are 
such  that  probably  no  great  English  poet  lends  himself  to  criticism  less 
easily  than  he.  His  poetry  is  so  iridescent,  so  ethereal,  so  mysteri- 
ously and  beautifully  expressive  of  the  more  subtle  and  spiritual  states 
of  mind,  that  it  practically  defies  analysis.  From  his  earliest  youth 
he  was  a  striking  figure.  Of  imaging^tion  all  compact,  innocent  at 
heart,  and  generous  of  disposition,  he  was  at  the  same  time  unpractical 
in  thought,  impatient  of  restraint,  and,  from  the  first,  rebellious 
against  constituted  authority,  at  war  with  existing  institutions,  —  a 
self-elected  prophet  stirred  with  the  passion  of  reforming  the  world. 
To  his  mind  the  church,  the  state,  the  social  order  —  all  were  corrupt, 
results  of  tyranny  and  superstition,  and,  as  such,  to  be  swept  aside. 
Accordingly  he  denounced  the  marriage  bond,  declared  himself  an 
atheist,  and  labored  in  splendid  but  nebulous  verse  to  realize  his 
"  visions  of  humanity  made  perfect  " ;  to  build  an  earthly  taber- 
nacle of  heavenly  liberty  and  of  love  and  unity  among  the  nations. 
Whatever  the  errors  of  youthful  irresponsibility,  not  all  his  enthusiasms 
were  of  the  stuff  that  empty  dreams  are  made  of.  He  prognosticated 
the  noble  ideal  of  a  Parliament  of  man  which  by  "  the  common  sense 
of  all  shall  held  a  fretful  realm  in  awe,"  sung  later  by  Tennyson  in 
Locksley  Hall,  and  the  project  for  peace  and  amity  advocated  to-day 
by  practical  statesmen  the  world  over,  as  not  impossible  of  gradual 
realization  by  the  united  effort  of  law-abiding  and  liberty-loving 
nations. 

When  we  study  his  poetry  for  its  own  sake,  we  forget  the  man  in 
our  admiration  of  the  poet,  for  it  is  poetry  such  as  the  world  has  rarely 
seen:  not  philosophical  like  that  of  Wordsworth  or  Browning,  or 
popular  like  that  of  Burns  or  Tennyson,  but  suffused  with  a  creative 
beauty  of  a  purely  poetical  quality  which  has  appeared  in  no  other 
English  poet  with  the  exception  of  Spenser,  and,  to  a  lesser  degree, 
Keats.     Its  dazzling  images,  its  rapid  rhythms,  its  grace  and  delicacy 


228  THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

of  touch,  its  exquisite  melodies  and  harmonies,  win  us  to  forget  the 
vagaries  of  the  reformer  in  the  perfection  of  the  artist.  The  last  years 
of  Shelley  were  his  best.  His  excesses  of  thought  and  style  seemed  to 
be  passing  under  the  yoke.  His  constant  reading  and  study  were 
bringing  him  into  greater  sympathy  and  conformity  with  the  world. 
Had  it  not  been  for  his  early  tragical  death,  it  is  difficult  to  estimate 
to  what  heights  his  poetic  genius  might  have  attained. 

1792-1818.  —  Shelley  was  bom  in  August,  1792,  near  Horsham 
in  the  county  of  Sussex.  His  father,  Sir  Timothy  Shelley,  was  a 
typically  conservative,  practical  country  squire,  never  in  the  least 
degree  able  to  understand  or  appreciate  his  brilliant  son.  At  the  age 
of  thirteen  the  boy  was  sent  to  Eton,  where  he  was  noted  for  his  im- 
patience of  restraint  and  his  independent  spirit,  as  well  as  for  the  as- 
tonishing ease  with  which  he  mastered  the  classics  and  other  favorite 
subjects  of  his  course.  When  eighteen  years  old  he  entered  Oxford ; 
but  his  sceptical  beliefs,  and  especially  his  publication  of  a  pamphlet 
entitled  The  Necessity  for  Atheism,  brought  about  his  expiilsion  within 
a  year.  From  Oxford  he  went  to  London,  where  he  met  Harriet 
Westbrook,  a  romantic  girl  of  sixteen.  Shelley  was  heir  to  a  large 
fortune.  Harriet's  elder  sister,  a  worldly  schemer,  played  match- 
maker, and  when,  a  little  later,  Harriet  told  Shelley  —  a  generous 
youth  of  nineteen  —  that  she  loved  him  and  that  she  must  be  rescued 
from  a  cruel  father,  Shelley  quixotically  proposed  elopement  and 
marriage.  He  and  his  girl- wife  wandered  through  various  parts  of 
England,  Wales,  and  Ireland.  During  this  time  he  composed  his 
first  long  (and  somewhat  crude)  poem.  Queen  Mab.  Returning  to 
London  in  18 13,  he  became  intimate  with  the  family  of  William  God- 
win, a  well-known  radical  thinker  of  the  time,  who  greatly  strength- 
ened Shelley  in  his  revolutionary  principles.  The  next  year  what 
was  to  be  expected  came  to  pass :  Harriet  and  Shelley,  realizing  their 
incompatibility  and  knowing  that  their  marriage  had  been  a  mistake, 
separated.  Two  years  later,  after  Harriet's  tragic  death,  Shelley 
married  Mary  Godwin.  These  events  estranged  the  British  public 
from  Shelley,  who,  after  the  publication  of  two  or  three  important 
poems  which  were  somewhat  coldly  received,  finally  left  England  for 
Italy.     This  was  in  181 8,  when  he  was  in  his  twenty-sixth  year. 

1818-1822.  —  These  were  the  most  important  years  of  Shelley's 
life.  Much  of  the  time  was  spent  in  the  company  of  Byron,  whom  ne 
had  previously  met  on  a  visit  to  Switzerland  in  1816.  Besides  many 
shorter  poehis,  such  as  the  Skylark,  the  Cloud,  the  Ode  to  the  West 
Windy  and  the  Ode  to  Liberty,  he  produced,  during  these  years,  two 


TO  A   SKYLARK  229 

great  tragedies,  Prometheus  Unbound  and  The  Cenci.  In  182 1,  the 
last  year  of  his  life,  he  wrote  his  Adonais,  upon  the  death  of  Keats  — 
a  poem  which  ranks  with  Milton's  Lycidas  and  Tennyson's  In  Me- 
moriam  as  among  the  best  elegies  in  the  English  language.  In  July  of 
the  next  year,  1822,  when  not  yet  thirty  years  of  age,  Shelley  was 
drowned  while  sailing  in  the  Gulf  of  Leghorn.  His  body  was  discov- 
ered after  a  few  days  and  was  cremated  on  the  shore  where  it  was  found. 
The  ashes  were  gathered  up  and  buried  beside  those  of  Keats  in  the 
little  English  cemetery  at  Rome. 

Shelley's  longer  poems  are  for  the  most  part  so  far  beyond  and  be- 
side the  facts  and  experiences  of  everyday  life  that  it  is  very  difficult 
to  enter  into  his  world.  But  many  of  his  lyrics  and  shorter  poems 
are  free  from  this  aloofness  and  idiosyncrasy ;  and  from  them  the 
reader  will  most  readily  learn  the  wonderful  force  of  the  poet's  genius. 

Of  these  shorter  lyrics  the  best  known  are  those  written  during  the 
last  years  of  his  life.  Though  his  Cenci  shows  astonishing  dramatic 
power,  and  his  reflective  poems  great  beauty,  he  excels  especially  as  a 
poet  of  the  emotional  and  prophetic  type. 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  — 

Bird  thou  never  wert  — 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.  S 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest ; 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest.  10 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun.  is 


230  SHELLEY 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  dayhght, 
Thou  art  unseen,  —  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see  —  we  feel  that  it  is  there.  25 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  Night  is  bare. 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is  overflowed.      30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody.  35 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not :  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  —  which  overflows  her  bower :         4s 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 
In  a  dell  of  dew, 


TO  A   SKYLARK  231 

Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view :    so 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  those  heavy- winged  thieves :  55 

Sound  of  vernal  showers  \ 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers,  — 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  —  thy  music  doth  surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine.  65 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt. 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt,  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  nappy  strain  ? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  tnountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ?  75 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest  —  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety.  80 


232  SHELLEY 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream  — 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ?  85 

We  look  before  and  after, 
And  pine  for  what  Is  not : 

Our  sincerest  laughter 
I  With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

'  Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought.    90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near.  95 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  !  100 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know, 
I       Such  harmonious  madness 
1  From  my  lips  would  flow, 

1  The  world  should  listen  then  —  as  I  am  listening  now.        105 


THE  CLOUD 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one. 


THE  CLOUD  233 

When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ;  2c 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion. 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills,  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

Wlien  the  morning  star  shines  dead ; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  3s 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 


234  SHELLEY 

With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 
As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden,  45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;  60 

The  volcanos  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,  —  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 


TO  NIGHT  235 

For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  cit  my  own  cenotaph,  — 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

TO  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear,-  5 

Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

II 
Wrap  thy  fqrm  in  a  mantle  gray. 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day ;  10 

Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  ^ut :. 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  —  . 

Come,  long-sought !  ^  '^'^    /    ^ /i 

ni 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn,  15 

^  I  sighed  for  thee ; 
When  light  rade  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest,  20 

I  sighed  for  thee. 


r^ 


236  SHELLEY 


IV 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"Wouldstthoume?" 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filnr^eye^, 
Murmured  like  a  Noontide  bee,  25 

"  Shall  I  nestle  at  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ?  "  —  and  I  replied, 
"  No,  not  thee  !  " 


V 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead. 

Soon,  too  soon ;  30 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night,  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  !  3S 

STANZAS   FROM   ADONAIS 

AN  ELEGY  UPON  THE  DEATH  Of' JOHN  KEATS 

*  Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep  — 
1  He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life  — 
I  'Tis  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
^  With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 

And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife  5 

Invulnerable  nothings.  —  We  decay 

Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;  fear  and  grief 

Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  kopes  swarm  likejwoxms  within  our  living  clay. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ;  10 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
.  From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 


ADONAIS  237 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn  15 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

He  lives,  he  wakes  —  'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he  ;\ 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais.  — ■  Thou  young  Dawn^  20 

Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 

Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  !  kf^  _ , , , 

Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air,     "^^     M  «l 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown  t^  1  ^ 

O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare  ^.^  /T'  1 

Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard     \ 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan  1 

Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ;     I  30 

He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone. 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never- wearied  love,  35 

Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness  I 

Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part/ while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there     40 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might  1 

From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light.    /  as 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 


238  SHELLEY 

The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought  50 

Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly' doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe,  S5 

That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which,  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea,  60 

Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven  65 

Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar : 

Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven,  70 

The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  POETRY 

{From  Prometheus  Unbound) 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept    ^ 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept  o  y 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ;  (xv 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses,  -l^ 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses  V 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses.'v- 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom   t/ 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume      ^ 


THE  GLORY  OF  PROMETHEUS  239 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom,        "^   , 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be ;  cL^  10 

But  from  these  create  he  can  ^ 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man,  €- 

Nurslings  of  immortality  !  cL^ 

THE   GLORY  OF  PROMETHEUS 

{From  Prometheus  Unbound) 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night ; 

To  defy  Power  which  seems  omnipotent ; 
To  love,  and  bear ;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates ;   .        s 

Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent ; 
This,  like  thy  glory.  Titan,  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free ; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory  ! 

SONNET 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand. 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command,  5 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 

Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things. 

The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed. 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 

"  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings :  lo 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  !  " 

Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


240  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

3.   A   POET  OF  THE  .ESTHETIC  TRANSITION 

In  the  development  of  English  poetry  keats  plays  a  very  impor- 
tant part.  Stopford  Brooke  says  of  him  that  he  "  went  back  to 
Spenser  and  especially  to  Shakespeare's  minor  poems  to  find  his 
inspiration;  to  Greek  and  medieval  life  to  find  his  subjects,  and 
established,  in  doing  so,  that  which  has  been  called  the  literary 
poetry  of  England."  And  Saintsbury  calls  Keats  "  the  forerunner 
of  Tennyson,  and  through  Tennyson,  of  all  English  poets  since ;  the 
father  of  every  English  poet  born  within  the  century,  who  has  not 
been  a  mere  exception.  He,  as  did  no  one  of  his  own  contemporaries, 
felt,  expressed,  and  handed  on  the  exact  change  wrought  in  English 
poetry  by  the  great  Romantic  movement."  To  link  the  poetry  of 
the  future  to  the  best  in  the  poetic  achievements  of  the  past  was  the 
mission  of  John  Keats.  With  him  poetry  was  supreme;  it  existed 
not  as  an  instrument  of  social  revolt  or  of  philosophical  doctrine, 
but  for  the  expression  of  beauty.     Real  poetry  is  not  of  any  school. 

I  Its  sweetness  and  its  grace  are  Romantic  and  Classical  alike.  Free- 
dom of  conception  and  restraint  of  style  are  the  twin  servitors  of  the 
beauty  for  which  poetry  exists.  This  is  the  aesthetic  view  of  literary 
art  handed  down  not  only  by  Tennyson,  but  by  Rossetti,  Morris, 
Swinburne,  and  more  or  less  adopted  by  them  from  Keats. 


JOHN   KEATS   (1795-1821) 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,  —  that  is  aU 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know." 

In  these  words  is  well  expressed  the  poetical  creed  of  John  Keats,  — 
passionate  lover  of  beauty  in  all  her  phases,  prophet  and  poet  of  the 
senses  and  their  delights.  Though  his  limited  conditions  shut  him  out 
from  any  direct  acquaintance  with  the  beauties  of  Grecian  literature 
and  art,  he  was  nevertheless  a  Greek  to  the  core  of  his  beauty-wor- 
shipping nature.  Though  he  could  have  known  but  little  of  medieval 
literature,  few  have  grasped  better  than  he  the  deUghtful  spirit  of 
medieval  romance.  His  genius  for  the  felicitous  use  of  words  is  no 
less  unerring  than  his  instinct  for  the  beautiful  in  the  world  of  tastes 
and  odors,  sights  and  sounds.  Like  Spenser  and  Shelley,  he  is  one 
of  the  most  truly  poetical  of  poets ;  like  the  former,  at  any  rate,  he 
drew  his  inspiration  from  the  enchanted  regions  of  the  past.  It  is 
true  that  the  poetry  of  Keats  is  lacking  in  that  deeper  thought  and 


JOHN  KEATS  241 

spiritual  uplift  which  we  associate  with  the  very  highest  order  of  poetfy. 
But  it  is  also  true  that  this  young  poet  died  when  barely  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  before  he  had  fully  outgrown  his  youthful  faults,  or  de- 
veloped the  wisdom  and  high  seriousness  which  are  necessary  to  one 
who  would  rank  with  the  first  of  poets.  Yet,  according  to  Matthew 
Arnold,  "  no  one  in  English  poetry,  save  Shakespeare,  has  quite  the 
fascinating  felicity  of  Keats,  his  perfection  of  loveliness." 

1795-1817.  —  Keats  was  born  in  London,  October,  1795.  His 
father,  a  livery-stable  keeper  in  humble  circumstances,  managed 
somehow  to  send  his  son,  then  seven  or  eight  years  old,  to  a  good 
school  just  outside  London,  where  the  lad  secured  an  elementary 
knowledge  of  Latin,  and  a  very  fair  acquaintance,  through  diction- 
aries and  translations,  with  classical  mythology.  When  fifteen  years 
of  age,  having  lost  his  father  and  mother,  the  boy  was  apprenticed 
to  a  surgeon,  with  whom  he  worked  and  studied  for  five  years.  He 
had  little  love  for  the  profession,  however,  and  after  spending  two  more 
years  in  the  hospitals  of  London,  he  abandoned  it  altogether.  In  his 
schoolboy  days  Keats  had  made  friends  who  awakened  his  love  for 
poetry  by  lending  him  books,  —  the  works  of  Chaucer,  Chapman's 
Homer,  and  the  Faerie  Queene  of  Spenser;  these  same  friends  now 
introduced  young  Keats  to  Leigh  Hunt  and  Shelley  and  other  literary 
folk  of  London.  About  this  time,  181 7,  when  twenty-two  years  old, 
Keats  brought  out  his  first  volume  of  verse  —  a  collection  crude  and 
amateurish  as  a  whole,  yet  containing  one  of  the  finest  of  all  English 
sonnets.  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer. 

1817-1821.  — In  1818,  while  still  in  his  twenty-third  year,  Keats 
produced  his  Endymion,  a  poem  with  many  faults  of  immaturity,  but 
in  no  wise  deserving  the  fierce  assaults  it  called  forth  from  the  liter- 
ary reviews  of  the  time.  Notwithstanding  these  attacks  the  poet 
worked  on  with  unabated  vigor,  and  in  1820  published,  among  other 
poems,  Hyperion,  which  shows  the  influence  of  Milton,  The  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes,  and  the  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn.  About  this  time  the  seeds 
of  consumption,  which  he  had  inherited,  began  to  develop,  and  he 
soon  knew  that  his  days  were  numbered.  In  September,  1820,  after 
publishing  still  another  volume,  the  poet  set  sail  for  Italy,  in  hope  that 
the  milder  climate  might  prolong  his  life.  In  vain ;  in  February  of  the 
next  year  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  in 
Rome. 

The  poetic  development  of  Keats  was  very  sure  and  rapid.  From 
the  first,  much  of  his  verse  shows  a  surprising  energy  and  freshness ; 


242  KEATS 

his  later  poems  fully  reveal  the  sense  of  color  and  form  which  distin- 
guishes his  poetry  at  its  best.  Of  all  his  poems,  perhaps  the  most 
delightful  are  the  odes  On  a  Grecian  Urn  and  To  a  Nightingale,  and 
the  metrical  romance,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  which  has  been  called 
"  the  latest  and  most  perfect  flowering  of  the  old  Spenserian  tree." 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  t 

t- 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told  s 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 

n 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ;  lo 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails:  is 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

ni 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door. 

And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue        20 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 

But  no  —  already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung ; 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  243 

His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  25 

Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinner's  sake  to  grieve. 

IV 

• 
That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft,  30 

The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 

Stared,  where  upon  their  head  the  cornice  rests,  35 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new-stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay         40 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there. 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare.  45 

VI 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ;  so 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


244  KEATS 

VII 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline :  55 

The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier,  60 

And  back  retired,  not  cooled  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

VIII 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short :  65 

The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport, 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  faery  fancy,  all  amort,  70 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire  75 

For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors. 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen,  80 

Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  —  in  sooth  such  things  have 
been. 


He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  245 

Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
For  him  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes,  85 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul.  90 

XI 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland :  95 

He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race  ! 

XII 

"  Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand ;    100 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away."  —  "Ah,  Gossip  dear,  105 

We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how  "  — •  "  Good  Saints  !  not  here,  not  here : 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

XIII 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 

Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ;  .  no 

And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day  !  '* 

He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 

Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 

"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 


246  KEATS 

"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom  us 

Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV 

"  St.  Agnes  !  Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve,  120 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  !  125 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

XV 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle-book,  130 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  briUiant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold. 
And  MadeUne  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old.  135 

XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art :  •       140 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  247 

XVII 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear,"  14s 

Quoth  Porphyro  :     "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  rufiian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ;  iso 

Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged  than  wolves  and 
bears." 

xvni 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing,  155 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 
Were  never  missed."    Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro, 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,  160 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy  165 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met,  170 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

XX 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 


248  KEATS 

Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare,  175 

For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead."  180 

XXI 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's -endless  minutes  slowly  passed; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her,  with  aged  eyes  aghast 

From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last,  185 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed,  and  chaste : 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

XXII 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade,  190 

Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led  19s 

To  a  safe  level  matting.    Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  frayed  and  fled. 

XXIII 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died:  200 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 

No  uttered  syllable,  or  woe  betide  ! 

But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  249 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ;  205 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 


A  casement 


high/and  tri] 


All  ganandeBywith  car/en  injag'fees__^    L       _ 
Of  iimtd  ana  flowera'and  -biimJies  of  ifiiot'-grass,  210 

And  diSmonde^  with  panes  of  qiiaint  (device, 
Irmumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
Asire  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings ; 
And  in  tfie  miHst,  'mong  tEousand  heraldries, 
J      And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings,  215 

A  sEieloeH  scutdfieon  bHtshed  witj;i  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

'  '  xxv^  I 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest,  220 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven :  —  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint.  225 

XXVI 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees, 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one, 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees :  230 

Half -hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


250  KEATS 


xxvn 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest,  235 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day. 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain,  240 

Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray, 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

xxvni 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed^pon  her  empt3^jjress,  245 

And  Ustened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness,  250 

And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo  !  —  how  fast  she  slept. 

XXIX 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  haK  anguished,  threw  thereon  255 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarinet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone :  —  260 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 


I 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  251 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap     \ 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd, 
With  jelUes  soother  than  the  creamy  curd,  1 

And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon, 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez,  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon.  270 

XXXI 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

FiUing  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  —  275 

"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

XXXII 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm  280 

Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies :  285 

It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

xxxni 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 

Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be  290 

He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 

In  Provence  called  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy:  " 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ;  — 

Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan ; 


252  KEATS 

He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly  295 

Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

XXXIV 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled  300 

The  bUsses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye,  305 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV 

"  Ah,  Porphyro  !  "  she  said,  *'  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear. 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear :  310 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go."  315 

XXXVI 

, .  Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose  320 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 


» 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  253 


xxxvn 

*Tis  dark :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet :  325 

"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !  " 
'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ?  330 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing," 

XXXVIII 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ?  33s 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest  340 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX 

"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise  —  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand ;  —  345 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed :  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be,  35© 

For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

XL 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears ; 


254  KEATS 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found ;  355 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horsemen,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor.  360 ' 

XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide. 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide,  365 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide :  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLn 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago  370 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old  375 

Died  palsy- twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 


My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 


ODE   TO  A    NIGHTINGALE  255 

'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,  s 

But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  Hght- winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease.  10 

n 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !  that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green. 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth  I 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,  15 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim :  20 

in 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs,  25 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow.  *    30 

IV 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night,  35 


256  KEATS 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways.    40 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ;  45 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast  fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves.  50 

VI 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rh)ane, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath. 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die,  —  ss 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

vn 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path  65 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home. 


ODE  ON  A    GRECIAN    URN  257 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  ahen  corn; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  70 

vm 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  ! 
Adieu  [  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  is 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music :  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ?  80 


ODE   ON  A   GRECIAN  URN 


Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness. 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time. 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf -fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens  loth  ? 

What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

II 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  .unheard . 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
s 


258  KEATS 

Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave         15 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss. 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  !     .  20 

in 

Ah  !  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  !  25 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue.  30 

IV 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest. 
Lead' St  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore,  35 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.  40 


O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  1  with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 

As  doth  eternity :  Cold  Pastoral !  ,         45 


I 

I 


LA    BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  259 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,  —  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know."  50 

LA  BELLE  DAME   SANS  MERCI 


Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing.  4 

II 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest's  done.  8 

III 

I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew ; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too.  12 

IV 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads. 

Full  beautiful,  a  faery's  child ; 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild.  16 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long ; 
For  sideways  would  she  lean  and  sing 

A  faery's  song.  20 


26o  KEATS 


VI 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan.  24 

vn 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  w  Id,  and  manna  dew ; 
And  sure  in  lar    lage  strange  she  said,  | 

I  love  thee  iri.e.  28 

vm 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot. 

And  there  she  gazed  and  sighed  deep ; 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes  — 

So  kissed  to  sleep.  32 

IX 

And  there  we  slumbered  on  the  moss. 

And  there  I  dreamed,  ah  woe  betide, 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed, 

On  the  cold  hill  side.  36 


I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

Who  cried  —  "La  belle  Dame  sans  merci 

Hath  thee  in  thrall !  "  40 

XI 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloom. 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide. 
And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill  side.  44 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER       261 

XII 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  irom  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing.  r.-  48 

SONNET 

ON    FIRST    LOOKING   INTO   CHAPMAN 's    HOMER 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  th^^  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  ^tii^ngdoms  seen : 
Round  many  western  islaijiJsihave  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  s 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ;  10 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
.^  Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

4.   THE  VICTORIAN  AGE:    THE  ELDER  POETS 

It  is  practically  impossible  to  condense  into  the  limits  of  a  brief 
sketch  any  detailed  account  of  the  Victorian' age  of  English  poetry. 
It  is  also  doubtful  whether  an  age  so  near  us,  indeed  in  most  respects 
our  own,  so  complex  in  its  interests  and  so  multiform  in  its  achieve- 
ments, can  be  made  the  subject  of  any  general  criticism  which 
will  stand  the  test  of  time.  The  Victorian  era  is  characterized  by 
social  change  and  intellectual  activity.  Education  has  been  vastly 
extended,  and  the  power  and  importance  of  literature  correspondingly 
increased.  New  problems  have  been  constantly  arising;  and  much 
of  the  poetry  of  the  age  has  consciously  or  unconsciously  been  con- 
cerned with  a  solution  of  these  prot)lems :  with  fresh  adjustments  in 
society,  wiser  ideals  in  politics,  a  wider  outlook  in  religion,  the  succes- 
sive revelations  of  science.  Hence,  an  earnestness  of  tone,  a  deliber- 
ative manner,  a  rapt  seriousness,  in  our  later  poetry,  rather  in  excess  of 


262  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

that  which  has  characterized  other  ages.  Still  the  Romantic  tendency 
of  poetry  continues,  as  one  critic  well  expresses  it,  "  in  the  novelty  and 
variety  of  its  form,  in  its  search  after  undiscovered  springs  of  beauty 
and  truth,  in  its  emotional  and  imaginative  intensity." 

In  poetical  importance,  the  age  as  a  whole  takes  rank  as  little  in- 
ferior to  that  of  Shakespeare ;  perhaps  equal  to  that  of  Wordsworth. 
In  its  earlier  period,  which  we  have  noted  under  three  divisions 

(the     elder     VICTORIAN    POETS,    THE    POETRY     OF     CHIVALRY,     THE 

COMPLETION  OF  THE  ROMANTIC  MOVEMENT),  it  was  especially  dis- 
tinguished by  the  names  of  tennyson  and  browning,  and  by  the 
lesser  glory  of  such  poets  as  Arnold,  Meredith,  morris,  Swin- 
burne, MRS.  BROWNING,  and  the  rossettis  ;  but  we  shall  first  turn 
to  one  who,  by  his  encyclopaedic  culture,  his  genial  optimism  and 
bluff  acceptance  of  the  spirit  of  his  age,  well  represents  the  somewhat 
more  practical  aspect  of  this  period :  one  who,  writing  in  the  martial 
style  of  Scott,  endowed  his  heroes  not  merely  with  manly  courage,  but 
with  manly  character,  with  noble  devotion  to  a  righteous  cause ;  one 
who  may  safely  be  called  the  most  brilliant  ballad- writer  of  his  age. 
There  are  poets'  poets  and  poets  of  the  learned ;  but  the  poets  of  the 
people  deserve  no  less  to  be  remembered  than  they.  For  the  poets 
of  the  people  are  also  the  poets  of  the  boys  —  of  those  who  are  to 
be  the  fathers  of  the  succeeding  race.  "  If  the  boys  of  England," 
says  Mr.  Miles,  and  we  may  add  "  of  America,"  "  could  be  polled 
as  to  their  favorite  poet.  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Lord  Macaulay  would 
doubtless  divide  the  honors ;  and  if  the  favorite  poem  were  in  ques- 
tion, H  or  alius  would  probably  be  voted  first." 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  (1800-1859) 

Macaulay,  unlike  most  of  the  other  authors  with  whom  we  have 
been  dealing,  was  principally  a  writer  of  prose.  His  work  as  essayist 
and  historian  so  overshadows  his  other  activities  that  he  is  ordinarily 
not  thought  of  as  a  poet  at  all.  It  has,  in  fact,  been  the  practice  of 
many  critics  to  follow  the  lead  of  Matthew  Arnold  in  treating  Macau- 
lay's  verse  with  something  very  much  like  contempt.  However,  as 
Saintsbury  and  others  have  justly  replied,  those  who  fail  to  see  the 
true  poetic  quality  in  this  vigorous  and  eloquent  verse  only  prove 
the  limitations  in  the  range  of  their  own  poetic  sympathies.  Macau- 
lay's  poems  are  not  addressed  to  the  ear  of  the  critic,  although  their 
vivid  pictures  and  stirring  metrical  form  ought  to  place  them  above 
even  the  critic's  censure.     They  do  not  aim  to  expound  the  deeper 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAU  LAY  263 

significance  of  life,  or  its  subtler  emotions ;  but  to  express  in  language 
bravely  unadorned  but  wondrously  effective  the  nobler  passions  of 
the  simple  soul.  They  are  gloriously  popular,  and  have  moved  the 
hearts  and  fired  the  imaginations  of  many  readers  for  whom  Keats  or 
Browning  or  even  Milton  would  have  little  message.  The  volume 
of  Macaulay's  poetry  was  very  slight :  a  few  early  pieces,  for  the  most 
part  little  known ;  several  martial  poems  such  fes  Ivry,  The  "Battle  of 
Naseby,  and  The  Armada,  also  of  this  early  period ;  and,  finally,  the 
famous  ballads  of  1842,  —  Horatius,  The  Battle  of  Lake  Regillus, 
Virginia,  and  The  Prophecy  of  Capys,  —  together  known  as  the  Lays 
of  Ancient  Rome.  Macaulay's  life  is  not  intimately  associated  with 
the  history  of  poetry,  but  it  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  inspir- 
ing in  the  roll  of  English  men  of  letters. 

1 800-1 825.  —  Born  in  Leicestershire,  October,  1800,  Macaulay 
was  the  eldest  of  nine  children.  His  parents  were  people  of  education 
and  refinement:  the  mother  of  Quaker  descent,  the  father  a  rigid 
Scotch  Presbyterian  and  prominent  abolitionist.  The  stories  of 
the  boy's  precocity  are  something  marvellous.  It  is  said  that  at  the 
age  of  three  he  was  "  an  incessant  reader."  Before  he  was  eight  "  he 
was  an  historian  and  a  poet."  By  the  time  he  was  fifteen  he  could 
read  in  at  least  six  languages.  His  memory  was  no  less  wonderful 
than  his  capacity  for  learning.  His  earlier  education  was  received  at 
home  and  in  schools  near  home.  He  entered  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  in  1824  he  was  made  a  Fellow  of 
his  college.  During  the  earlier  years  of  his  college  course  he  wrote 
two  prize  poems,  and,  in  the  later,  a  number  of  critical  essays. 

1 825-1 838.  —  In  1825  appeared  Macaulay's  famous  essay  on  Mil- 
ton, the  first  of  a  long  series  which  he  wrote  for  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view. His  abilities  as  a  writer,  recognized  from  the  first,  soon  brought 
him  to  the  attention  of  the  Whigs ;  in  1830  he  was  given  a  seat  in 
Parliament,  where  we  soon  hear  of  him  as  an  active  and  successful 
advocate  of  the  famous  "  Reform  Bill  "  of  1832.  In  1834  he  was 
sent  to  India  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Council.  Here  he  remained 
nearly  five  years,  achieving  several  important  governmental  reforms, 
and  amassing  a  considerable  fortune. 

1 83 8-1 859.  —  Back  in  England  again,  he  was  at  once  elected  to 
Parliament  from  Edinburgh  —  a  position  which  he  held,  first  for  nine, 
and  again  later  for  four,  years.  All  this  time  he  was  a  contributor  of 
critical  and  biographical  essays  to  the  Edinburgh  Review;  during  the 
latter  portion  of  it  he  was  also  employed  in  writing  his  celebrated  His- 
tory of  England.    In  1842  his  Lays  vf  Ancient  Rome  appeared ;  the 


264  MACAULAY 

next  year,  a  volume  of  his  collected  essays ;  in  1848,  the  first  two  vol- 
umes of  his  History.  When  he  was  fifty-seven  years  of  age,  he  was 
made  a  peer,  and  chose  as  his  title  "  Baron  Macaulay  of  Rothley." 
Two  years  later  he  died  and  was  buried  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  West- 
minster Abbey.  In  his  later  life  he  had  been  the  recipient  of  many 
distinguished  honors,  both  at  home  and  abroad  —  honors  well  merited 
by  the  energetic,  generous,  brilliant  man  of  letters. 

The  general  reader  may  be  sure  of  finding  pleasure  in  almost  any  of 
Macaulay's  poems,  for  all  are  simple,  manly,  chivalrous :  the  poetry 
of  the  clarion  call.  Among  the  earlier  pieces,  Ivry  is  probably  the 
best ;  of  the  Lays  the  choice  would  seem  to  lie  between  Virginia  and 
Horatius.  The  latter  is  included  in  this  volume  as  undoubtedly 
the  best  known  and  most  typical  of  the  three. 

HORATIUS 

A  LAY  MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  CCCLX 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swoj^  it,  s 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

n 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north  10 

The  messengers  ride  fast. 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home,  ,  15 

When  Porsena  of  Clusium  0 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 


HORATIUS  265 

The  hors^en  a^afci  theiSotmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place ;  20 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain ; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine. 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine ;  25 

rv 

From  lordly  Volaterrae, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old ; 
From  seagirt  Populonia,  30 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky ; 


From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves,  35 

Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves ; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vine  and  flowers ; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven  40 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 

VI 

Tall  are  the*  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  Auser's  rill ; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Cirtiinian  hill ;  45 

Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear ; 


266  MACAULAY 

Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 
The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

VII 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman  50 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill ; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer ;  5S 

Unharmed  the  water  fowl  may  dip  f 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

VIII 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap, 
This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro  60 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep ; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome.  65 

IX 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets. 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  always  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand : 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty  70 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 


And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given :  75 

"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena ;  > 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven ; 


RORATIUS  267 

Go,  and  return  in  glory- 
To  Clusium's  royal  dome ; 

And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars  80 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 

XI 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten :  85 

Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

XII 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies  90 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye. 
And  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally ; 
And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came  95 

The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

XIII 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign  100 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways : 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days.  105 

XIV 

For  aged  folks  on  crutches. 
And  women  great  with  child. 


268  MACAU  LAY 


And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters  no 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 
And  troops  of  sun-burned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

XV 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine,  ns 

And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep,       '' 

And  endless  herds  of  kine. 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods,  120 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 

XVI 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky.  125 

The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

XVII 

To  eastward  and  to  westward  130 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands ; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain ;  13s 

Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 


HORATIUS  269 

xvin 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 
But  sore  it  ached  and  fast  it  beat,  140 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall.  14s 

XIX 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-Gate ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly :  150 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  j 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost. 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

XX 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying. 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear ;  15s 

"  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  Sir  Consul : 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye. 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust  i6o 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

XXI 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come ; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud,  165 

Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 


270  MACAULAY 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right,  170 

.In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
Tlie  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

XXII 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly, 

Above  that  glimmering  line,  17s 

Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine ; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all. 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian,  180 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

XXIII 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest. 

Each  warlike  Lucumo.  185 

There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen ; 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold,  190 

And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

XXIV 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium  19s 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name ; 


HORATIUS  271 

And  by  the  left,  false  Sextus, 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame.  200 

XXV 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman  '  205 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed, 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

XXVI 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low,      ^  210 

And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall. 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  go*es  down ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge,  215 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  " 

XXVII 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late.  220 

And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds. 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers. 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

xxvrn 

"  And  for  the  tender  mother  225 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest. 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 


272  MACAULAY 


And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame,  230 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

XXIX 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me,  235 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  "  240 

XXX 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius ;  24s 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

XXXI 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be."  250 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life,  255 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXII 

Then  none  was  for  a  party ; 
Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 


HORATIUS  273 

Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great :  260 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIII 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman  265 

More  hateful  than  a  foe, 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold :  270 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old.         • 

XXXIV 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man  27s 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe : 
And  Fathers,  mixed  with  Commons, 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below.  280 

XXXV 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold. 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold.  ^  285 

Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread. 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread. 


274  MACAU  LAY 

Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head,  290 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

XXXVI 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose :  295 

And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew. 

And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 
To  win  the  narrow  way ;  300 

XXXVII 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines ;  ^ 

And  Sems,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines ;  . 

And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium  30s 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  grey  crag  where,  girt  with  towers. 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar.  310 

XXXVIII 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath : 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth : 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius  315 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust ; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

XXXIX 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii  ,. 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three ;  320 


HORATIUS  275 

And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den  325 

Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

XL 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns : 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low :  330 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
*'  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark  335 

The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail." 

xu 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter  340 

Was  heard  among  the  foes ; 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array,  345 

And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

XLn 

But  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur : 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide ; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna  350 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 


276  ^  MACAULAY 

Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield.  355 


XLin 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she-wolf's  litter  360 

Stand  savagely  at  bay : 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow. 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  " 

XLIV 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height,  36s 

He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh ;  370 

It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

XLV 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space ;  .  37S 

Then,  like  a  wild  cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face ; 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out  380 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 


HORATIUS  277 

XLVI 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak.  385 

Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread ; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low. 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

XLVII 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius  390 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel. 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain. 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"  And  see,"  he  cried,  '*  the  welcome. 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  !  $95 

What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

XLVIII 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran. 
Mingled  of  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread,  400 

Along  that  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess. 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race ; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place.  40s 

XLIX 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three : 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance  410 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 


278  MACAULAY 

All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare. 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear  415 

Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 


Was  none  who  would  be  foremost    • 

To  lead  such  dire  attack : 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  !  " 

And  those  before  cried  '^  Back  !  "  420 

And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel ; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal  42s 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

LI 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Stood  Qut  before  the  crowd ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud,  — •  430 

"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

LH 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ;  43s 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread : 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way,      '  440 

Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 


HORATIUS  279 

LHI 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering  445 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
*'  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !  " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all ; 
"  Back,  Lartius  I  back,  Herminius ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !  "  450 

uv 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius ; 

Herminius  darted  back : 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces,  455 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone. 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 

LV 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam,  460 

And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream. 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops  465 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

LVI 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein. 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane,  470 

And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free, 


28o  MACAU  LAY 

And,  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier. 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea.  475 

Lvn 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind,  — 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus,  480 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

LVin 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see ;  485 

Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river  490 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome : 

LIX 

"  Oh,  Tiber  !  father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !  "  49s 

So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side. 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

LX 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow  500 

Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 


HORATIUS  281 

But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 
And  when  above  the  surges  505 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

LXI 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current,  510 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain : 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows :  51s 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking. 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

LXII 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer. 

In  such  an  evil  case. 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood  520 

Safe  to  the  landing  place : 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin.  525 

LXIII  ' 

"  Curse  on  him  !  "  quoth  false  Sextus ; 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town  !  " 
"  Heaven  help  him  !  "  quoth  Lars  Porsena,  530 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 


282  MACAU  LAY 

LXIV 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ;  535 

Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate,  540 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

LXV 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ;  545 

And  they  made  a  molten  image. 

And  set  it  up  on  high. 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

LXVI 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium,  550 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see, 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee : 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold,  sss 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

Iti  the  brave  days  of  old. 

LXVII 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them  560 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home ; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 


HORATIUS  283 

As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old.  565 

Lxvni 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage  57© 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within ; 

LXIX 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened. 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ;  sis 

When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets,  580 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

LXX 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom ;  585 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  (1809-1892) 

Few  poets  have  been  so  completely  representative  of  their  time,  have 
entered  so  fully  into  its  moods,  or  have,  to  such  a  degree,  first  moulded 
and  then  satisfied  the  tastes  of  their  contemporaries  as  Alfred  Tenny- 


284  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

son.  If  the  rank  of  a  poet  depends  upon  the  diverse  nature  of  his 
poetic  accomplishment,  or  his  recognition  of  the  pubHc  need  and  a  uni- 
versal acceptance  by  his  auditors,  or  an  entire  devotion  to  his  art,  or  a 
lofty  conception  of  his  mission,  or  the  harmony  and  efifectiveness  of  his 
performance  —  then  Tennyson's  place  among  English  poets  must  be 
very  high.  He  was,  in  the  fullest  and  best  sense  of  the  word,  a  scholar, 
delighting  to  live  in  seclusion  and  in  communion  with  nature  and  his 
books.  He  not  only  thoroughly  knew  his  own  age,  but  also  knew,  as 
few  others  have  known,  the  history  and  best  traditions  of  the  literature 
that  preceded  him.  He  has  been  called  the  poet  of  art  rather  than  of 
energy.  His  technical  skill  is  equal  to  Pope's,  though  he  is  as  much 
broader  than  Pope  as  nineteenth-century  poetry  is  broader  than  poetry 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  has  been  frequently  styled  the  literary 
successor  of  Keats,  but  he  added  to  Keats 's  power  of  happily  combining 
color,  music,  and  sensuous  form,  a  moral  earnestness,  a  range  of  inter- 
est, a  structural  imagination,  and  a  trained  literary  discrimination,  of 
which  the  earher  poet  shows  little.  No  other  English  poet,  not  even 
Spenser  or  Wordsworth,  has  more  conscientiously  devoted  himself  to 
the  cultivation  of  his  talent.  For  over  sixty  years  he  was  a  poet  pure 
and  simple,  writing,  revising,  studying,  living  for  his  art ;  and  he  made 
of  himself  an  artist  whose  skill  has  rarely  been  surpassed.  Few  writers 
have  so  fully  possessed  the  ability  to  profit  by  the  work  of  their  prede- 
cessors, and,  at  the  same  time,  to  develop  so  distinct  an  individuality. 
Graceful,  melodious,  felicitous  in  technique,  exquisite  in  imagery,  and 
noble  in  aspiration,  he  follows  not  far  behind  the  very  best  of  English 
poets.  So  quiet  and  retired  was  his  life  that  an  accoimt  of  it  can  be 
scarcely  more  than  a  record  of  his  successive  publications. 

1 809-1 83  2.  —  Tennyson  was  born  in  Lincolnshire  in  1809,  the 
fourth  son  in  a  large  and  highly  gifted  family.  His  father  was  a  clergy- 
man, a  man  of  imusual  learning  and  intelligence.  Aside  from  a  few 
rather  unhappy  years  at  school,  the  boy  received  his  early  education  at 
home,  where  the  wholesome  country  life  and  the  companionship  and  ^ 
careful  training  of  his  father  did  much  toward  insuring  a  soimd  liter- 
ary development.  When  he  was  but  eighteen  years  of  age,  he  pub- 
lished with  his  brother  Charles  (then  nineteen)  a  Httle  volume  now 
valuable  because  of  its  rarity,  called  Poems  of  Two  Brothers.  The 
same  year  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Here  he  gained 
some  little  note  as  a  college  poet,  and  made  many  warm  and  lasting 
friends  (among  them  the  brilliant  but  short-lived  Arthur  Hallam) ;  but 
he  left  the  university  in  183 1  without  taking  a  degree,  and  at  once 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  poetry.    The  year  before  leaving  coUege 


ALFRED   TENNYSON  285 

he  had  published  Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical,  a  book  which  was  rather 
severely  handled  by  the  critics. 

1832-1850.  —  Incited  by  these  not  wholly  undeserved  strictures, 
the  poet,  after  publishing  a  second  volume  in  1832,  sat  quietly  and 
diligently  down  to  a  course  of  self -development.  He  spent  the  next 
ten  years  chiefly  in  London,  in  the  study  of  history,  science,  language, 
literature  —  anything  which  might  discipline  and  mature  his  poetic 
abiUty.  The  outcome  appeared  in  the  marked  distinction  of  the  two 
volimies  which  he  published  in  1842  —  volumes  which  established  be- 
yond cavil  his  reputation  as  a  poet.  Among  these  poems  of  1842  were 
some  of  his  best,  such  as  the  Morte  d' Arthur,  Ulysses,  and  Locksley 
Hall.  In  1847  appeared  The  Princess,  and  in  1850,  his  forty-first  year 
and  the  year  of  his  marriage,  In  Memoriam  was  published.  Begun 
long  before  upon  the  death  of  his  dear  friend  Hallam,  this  is  the 
transfiguration  of  sorrow  by  immortal  hope.  A  few  months  later, 
upon  the  death  of  Wordsworth,  Tennyson  was  made  Poet  Laureate. 

1850-1875.  —  At  the  beginning  of  this  period  the  poet  took  up  his 
residence  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  at  Farringford,  partly  through  love  of 
the  country  and  partly  to  escape  from  the  publicity  which  his  shy 
nature  abhorred.  After  some  fifteen  years,  when  this  retreat  had  also 
begun  to  be  the  Mecca  of  literary  pilgrimages,  he  established  a  summer 
home  at  Aldworth,  in  Surrey.  In  these  two  country  homes,  sur- 
rounded by  his  family  and  congenial  friends,  he  lived  out  a  long,  quiet, 
contented  life,  much  as  Wordsworth  had  done  at  Grasmere  and  Rydal 
Moxmt  some  fifty  years  before.  All  this  time  he  was  steadily  at  work 
publishing,  at  intervals  of  about  five  years  and  in  the  order  named,  — 
Maid,  the  first  four  Idylls  of  the  King,  Enoch  Arden,  The  Holy  Grail, 
and  other  Idylls. 

1875-1892.  —  In  1875  appeared  the  first  of  his  three  historical 
dramas.  These  are  worthy  of  note,  not  so  much  for  their  intrinsic 
value,  which  is  not  inconsiderable,  as  for  the  interesting  fact  that  the 
poet,  now  sixty-six  years  old,  had  the  energy  and  ambition  to  enter 
upon  an  entirely  new  field  of  work,  that  of  dramatic  poetry.  In  fact, 
Becket,  the  best  of  his  dramas,  was  written  when  Tennyson  was  over 
seventy-five  years  of  age.  But  this  by  no  means  completes  the  tale 
of  his  work.  Until  the  end  of  his  hfe,  poem  after  poem  appeared, 
which,  though  adding  nothing  to  his  already  established  fame,  are  yet 
so  good  that  we  should  be  loath  to  part  with  one  of  them.  Indeed, 
Crossing  the  Bar,  the  work  of  his  eighty-first  year,  is  one  of  the  best 
things  he  ever  wrote.  In  1884  Tennyson  accepted  a  peerage,  with 
the  title  of  Baron  of  Aldworth  and  Farringford  —  an  honor  which  he 


286  TENNYSON 

had  previously  twice  declined.  The  poet  died  at  Aldworth  in  his 
eighty-fourth  year,  October,  1892,  and  was  buried  with  imposing  cere- 
mony in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

Almost  everything  in  Tennyson  is  worth  reading.  Certainly  no 
other  English  author  has  written  so  many  charming  and  artistic  short 
poems.  A  few  of  these  are  given  below.  His  longer  poems,  such  as 
The  Princess,  Enoch  Arden,  or  the  different  Idylls  of  the  King,  are  as 
entertaining  and  simple  as  they  are  beautiful.  Two  of  the  Idylls 
may  be  found  in  the  next  section  of  this  book.  In  Memoriam,  which  is 
by  many  regarded  as  Tennyson's  greatest  work,  is  one  of  the  noblest 
elegies  ever  written.  Three  things  seem  to  insure  Tennyson's  popu- 
larity :  he  is  almost  always  clear,  he  is  uniformly  interesting,  and  he  is 
essentially  modern.  In  the  drama  he  did  good,  but  not  preeminent 
service ;  in  the  ballad  and  the  dramatic  monologue  he  is  not  easily  ex- 
celled ;  in  the  lyric  he  has  few  superiors ;  in  the  idyll  and  the  elegy  he 
is  surpassed  by  none. 

(ENONE 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either  hand  5 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n  ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus  10 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning :  but  in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  columned  citadel, 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  OEnone,  wandering  forlorn  is 

Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seemed  to  float  in  rest. 


(ENONE  287 

She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine, 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade  20 

Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper  cliff. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass : 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone. 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are  dead. 
The  purple  flower  droops :  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love ;  30 

My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Hear  me,  O  Earth,  hear  me,  O  Hills,  O  Caves  35 

That  house  the  cold  crowned  snake  1     O  mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed,  40 

A  cloud  that  gathered  shape :  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die.  4S 

I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills. 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark. 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 

Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horned,  white-hooved,  so 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  called  me  from  the  cleft ; 


288  TENNYSON 

Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  downdropt  eyes         55 

I  sat  alone :  white-breasted  like  a  star 

Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leopard  skin 

Drooped  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 

Clustered  about  his  temples  like  a  God's, 

And  his  cheek  brightened  as  the  foam-bow  brightens       60 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  heart 

Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold,  65 

That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  looked 
And  listened,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  '  My  own  (Enone, 
Beautiful  browed  (Enone,  my  own  soul. 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  ingrav'n  70 

"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award  it  thine,  • 

As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married  brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die.  7s 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine. 
And  added  '  This  was  cast  upon  the  board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  'twere  due :  80 

But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the  cave  85 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine. 
May  St  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard  ,^ 

Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 


(ENONE  289 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon :  one  silvery  cloud  90 

Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower. 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel,  os 

Lotos  and  lilies :  and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro'.        100 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flowed  a  golden  cloud,  and  leaned 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom  105 

Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 

Unquestioned,  ov,erflowing  revenue  no 

Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  '  from  many  a  vale 
And  river-sundered  champaign  clothed  with  corn, 
Or  labored  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  *  and  homage,  tax,  and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large,  us 

Mast-thronged  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ;  120 

Power  fitted  to  the  season ;  wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neighbor  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such  boon  from  me, 


290  TENNYSON 

From  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king-born,      125 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born, 

Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men,  in  power, 

Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attained 

Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 

Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss  130 

In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy/ 

''  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's  length,  so  much  the  thought  of  power 
Flattered  his  spirit ;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood  13s 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold. 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek  140 

Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply : 

*' '  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncalled  for)  but  to  live  by  law,  145 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.' 

-# 
"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said :  '  I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts.  150 

Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me  • 

To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair,  155 

Unbiassed  by  self  profit,  O,  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 


(ENONE  291 

Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 

To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks,  160 

Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 

Sinewed  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will. 

Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 

Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

''  Here  she  ceased. 
And  Paris  pondered,  and  I  cried,  '  O  Paris,  165 

Give  it  to  Pallas !  '  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me ! 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful,  170 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder :  from  the  violets  her  light  foot  17s 

Shone  rosy- white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes,  180 

The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 

HaK-whispered  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise  thee 

The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.' 

She  spoke  and  laughed :  I  shut  my  sight  for  fear : 

But*When  I  looked,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm,  185 

And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 

As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 

And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower ; 

And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 

And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die.  igo 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife  ?  am  I  not  fair  ? 


292  TENNYSON  ; 

My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times.  ^ 

Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 

When  I  passed  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard,  _    igs 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 

Crouched  fawning  in  the  weed.     Most  loving  is  she? 

Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 

Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew  200 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 

Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge  205 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Fostered  the  callow  eaglet  — ■  from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the  dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I  sat  210 

Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  (Enone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them ;  never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slits  of  silver  cloud, 
.  Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars.  215 

*'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruined  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her. 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came  2 

Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change ;  that  I  might  speak  my  mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men.  225 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times. 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 


(ENONE  293 

Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 

Sealed  it  with  kisses?  watered  it  with  tears?  230 

O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these ! 

O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 

O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud, 

There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth ;  235 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live  :^ 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 

Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids :  let  me  die.  240 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills,         245 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born :  her  child !  —  a  shudder  comes 
Across  me :  never  child  be  born  of  me,  250 

Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes ! 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone. 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death  255 

Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound  260 

Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


294  TENNYSON 


THE  LADY  OF   SHALOTT 

PART  I 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot ;  5 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below,  'A 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver,  lo 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers,  is 

Overlook  a  space  of  flowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow- veiled, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trailed  20 

By  slow  horses ;  and  unbailed 

The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sailed 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand?  25 

Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

TheLady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 

In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly  '^        30 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  295- 

From  the  river  winding  clearly 

Down  to  towered  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "  'Tis  the  fairy  3s 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART  n 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 

A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 

A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay  40 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  4s 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot :  50 

There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls,  , 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad,  ss 

An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot : 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue  60 

The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


296  TENNYSON 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  in 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  ghttered  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung, 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelled  shone  the  saddle-leather. 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  297 

As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glowed ;  100 

On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river  105 

He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 

She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room,  no 

She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  cracked  from  side  to  side ;  us 

"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining,  120 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  towered  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote  125 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 


398  TENNYSON 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 

With  a  glassy  countenance  130 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  135 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot :  140 

And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy,  14s 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 

Turned  to  towered  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reached  upon  the  tide  150 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery,  155 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame,  160 

And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  '^ 


ULYSSES  299 

Who  is  this  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 

And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 

Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ;  165 

And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace,  170 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me.  5 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoyed 

Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore,  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades  10 

Vext  the  dim  sea :  I  am  become  a  name ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart. 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known :  cities  of  men, 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments,  — ■ 

Myself  not  least,  but  honored  of  them  all ;  is 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro'       - 

GteRis  that  untravelled  world,  whose  margin  fades 

For^veTaitd-ior^^ever  when  1  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 

To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life  / 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me  25 

Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 


1 


300  TENNYSON 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire  30 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil  35 

This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail  40 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners,  4S 

Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil :  50 

Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the  deep  5s 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths  60 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 


SONGS  FROM   THE  PRINCESS  301 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  tho'  65 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.  70 

BREAK,   BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me.  4 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  !  8 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on  v 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still !  12 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me.  16 

SONGS  FROM  THE  PRINCESS 

I 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go,  S 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one  sleeps. 


302  TENNYSON 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ;  lo 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon ;  is 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

II 

The  splendor  falls  on  castije  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory.  20 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O,  hark,  O,  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O,  sweet  and  far  from  clijff  and  scar  25 

The  horns  of  Elflaftd  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river ;  30 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

in 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ;  35 

She  nor  swooned  nor  uttered  cry. 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


IN  MEMORIAM  303 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved,  40 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ;  4c 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 

"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee."  ^         so 

(  From  IN  MEMORIAM 

PROEM 
U         I     [^     9       to     I      .^      I 

Strong  Sonlof  Godiimmorfel  Love,       . 

Whom  we^that  nav^not  se'en/thy  face, 
^^y  faith/ aAQ  faitt^Sione J  embrace/ 
Belie^ii^  where^we  cannot  prove ;  4 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute ; 

Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made.  8 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him :  thou  art  just.  12 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  hoUest  manhood,  thou. 

Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine.  16 


304  TENNYSON 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be ; 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 


We  have  but  faith :  we  cannot  know. 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 
And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 

A  beam  in  darkness :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seemed  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seemed  my  worth  since  I  began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man. 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 


Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth ; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth. 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


/ 

CROSSING  THE  BAR  305 

FLOWER  IN  THE   CRANNIED  WALL 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all,  5 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

CROSSING  THE   BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea,  4 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home.  8 

Twihght  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 

When  I  embark ;  12 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place, 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar.  16 

ROBERT  BROWNING   (181 2-1889) 

Browning  was  almost  an  exact  contemporary  of  Tennyson,  born 
three  years  later  and  dying  three  years  earlier.  Like  Tennyson,  he 
was  a  man  of  upright  character,  deep  religious  earnestness,  and  cheer- 
ful optimism.     Like  Tennyson,  also,  he  was  always  frank  in  facing 


3o6  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the  intellectual  and  spiritual  problems  of  the  age.  Both  poets  are 
essentially  wholesome  in  all  their  writings ;  both  are  distinctively  mod- 
ern in  thought  and  poetic  method ;  both  were  so  fortunately  situated 
as  to  be  able  to  give  their  undivided  attention  to  their  work ;  and  both, 
for  nearly  sixty  years,  labored  untiringly  and  devotedly  toward  the 
realization  of  their  art  and  its  mission.  But  the  parallel  ends  here, 
and  a  divergence  commences  which  will  explain  why  Browning,  unlike 
his  great  contemporary,  has  never  been  favored  by  the  many,  though 
he  is  intensely  admired  by  the  few. 

The  genius  of  Browning  is  bold,  independent,  and  vigorous,  as  his 
personality  is  robust,  genial,  and  aggressive.  Of  smooth  and  graceful 
verse  he  is  capable  (witness  his  Saul) ,  and  he  is  capable  also  of  lucid- 
ity ;  but  he  tends  rather  to  that  which  is  involved  in  conception  and 
forceful  and  rugged  in  utterance.  His  mission  was  not  to  delight  or 
soothe,  but  to  arouse  and  intellectually  to  awaken.  His  aims  are 
strikingly  original,  and  his  method  no  less  so.  In  consequence  he 
has  been  condemned  by  many  who  simply  do  not  take  the  trouble  to 
understand  him.  As  a  thinker  he  is  rapid  and  daring,  wonderfully 
subtle  and  profoimd.  His  knowledge  was  broad,  yet  singularly  rec- 
ondite, - —  as,  for  instance,  in  relation  to  the  music,  painting,  and 
sculpture  of  his  beloved  Italy.  Unfortunately,  with  characteristic 
disregard  of  his  reader's  limitations,  he  had  the  habit  of  registering  his 
thoughts  just  as  he  thought  them ;  of  jotting  down  allusions  just  as 
they  occurred  to  him.  The  obscurity  of  Browning,  moreover,  is  due 
not  only  to  subtlety  of  thought  and  compression  of  phrase,  but  also, 
in  no  slight  degree,  to  his  careless  style  of  writing.  Hence  the  demand 
for  Browning  societies  and  Browning  cyclopaedias,  and  hence  the 
disfavor  in  which  many  hold  the  poet. 

There  is  little  doubt  that  Browning  was  ahead  of  his  age,  and  that 
the  common  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  his  work  will  gain  as  time 
passes.  Some  of  his  lyrics  are  almost  perfect  of  their  kind.  His  dra- 
matic monologues  show  a  power  of  character  analysis  equalled  by  few 
since  Shakespeare.  In  mental  force  and  directness  he  reminds  one  of 
Dryden  at  his  best.  His  poems  rarely  yield  their  meaning  on  a  single 
reading,  but  those  who  take  the  pains  to  study  them  seldom  fail  to  de- 
rive an  exhilaration  and  uplift  which  few  poets  are  capable  of  imparting. 
Much  of  his  poetry  hinges  on  the  relation  of  this  life  to  the  next.  God, 
the  freedom  of  the  individual  soul,  and  immortality  are  the  cardinal 
tenets  of  his  faith.  No  English  poet  has  coined  into  art  a  religious 
belief  more  strenuous  and  optimistic.  Already  ranked  next  to  Tenny- 
son in  the  field  of  nineteenth-century  poetry,  the  day  is  at  hand  when 
the  consensus  of  opinion  will  place  him  beside  Tennyson :  always, 


ROBERT  BROWNING  307 

of  course,  inferior  in  technique,  but  superior  in  originality  of  thought, 
in  interpretative  and  creative  power. 

1 81 2-1 846.  —  Browning  was  born  in  London  in  May,  181 2.  His 
father,  a  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  England,  was  a  man  of  considerable 
learning,  as  well  as  taste  in  matters  of  art  and  literature.  The  boy's 
education  was  received  chiefly  by  private  instruction  at  home,  where 
his  father's  large  library  afforded  him  excellept  opportunity  for  study. 
He  was  attracted  successively  by  the  works  of  Byron,  Keats,  and 
Shelley ;  at  a  very  early  age  he  commenced  making  verses  on  his  own 
account.  Unlike  almost  every  other  Englishman  of  letters,  he  attended 
neither  Oxford  nor  Cambridge.  Browning's  first  poem,  Pauline, 
was  written  when  he  was  not  yet  twenty  years  of  age.  The  poem, 
though  crude  and  difficult  to  understand,  is  important  as  the  first 
step  toward  the  fulfilment  of  the  poet's  definite  determination  to  make 
his  poetry  a  study  of  the  life  of  the  soul.  Such  a  study  was  Paracelsus 
three  years  later,  and  such  Sordello  in  1840  —  both  of  them  character- 
istic of  their  author;  but  the  latter,  especially,  nay  unpardonably, 
obscure  and,  in  many  places,  even  unintelligible  to  the  average  or  more 
than  average  reader.  Between  1840  and  1846  many  of  Browning's 
best  poems  were  written,  among  them  Pippa  Passes,  the  Dramatic 
Lyrics,  and  the  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon.  This  series  of  poems  made  up 
some  nine  or  ten  small  volumes,  and  were  together  known  as  Bells  and 
Pomegranates. 

1846-1861.  —  When  Browning  was  thirty-four  years  old,  he  met 
Elizabeth  Barrett,  England's  greatest  poetess,  who  was  then  a  con- 
firmed invalid.  An  attachment  sprang  up,  and,  under  romantic  cir- 
cumstances, the  two  were  married.  They  slipped  away  to  Italy  and 
made  their  home  in  Florence  until  the  wife's  death  fifteen  years  later. 
Though  much  of  Mrs.  Browning's  best  work  was  done  during  this 
period.  Browning  himself  published  but  two  volumes,  Christmas  Eve 
and  Easter  Day,  1850,  and  Men  and  Women,  1855.  The  latter  is  a 
collection  of  dramatic  monologues  —  poems  in  which  the  speaker  is 
supposed  to  address  an  interlocutor,  whose  presence,  however,  is  only 
inferred  from  the  speaker's  words.  In  this  particular  form  of  composi- 
tion Browning  stands  supreme. 

1 861-187 1.  —  After  his  wife's  death  the  poet  returned  to  London, 
which  was  henceforth  his  home  save  for  occasional  periods  of  residence 
in  Venice.  During  the  first  ten  years  of  this  life  in  London  he  con- 
tinued to  write  poems  of  a  quality  not  inferior  to  those  which  he  had 
written  in  Italy.  The  Dramatis  Personce,  in  subject  and  treatment, 
reminds  the  reader  of  Men  and  Women.     The  Ring  and  the  Book^ 


3o8  BROWNING 

1869,  over  twice  as  long  as  either  Paradise  Lost  or  the  Idylls  of  the 
King,  is  thought  by  many  to  be  his  best,  as  it  is  certainly  his  most 
ambitious,  work ;  but  though  lighted  by  golden  shafts  of  poetry  the 
wood  is  hard  at  times  to  see  for  the  trees,  so  confused,  indiscriminate, 
and  repetitious  are  the  details.  The  Balaustion's  Adventure,  187 1,  is 
noteworthy  as  a  delightful  rendering  of  a  noble  Greek  tragedy. 

1871-1889.  —  The  latter  portion  of  Browning's  life  was  even  more 
busily  employed  than  his  earlier  years.  As  he  grew  older,  his  poems 
became,  unfortunately,  more  and  more  abstruse,  his  style  more  and 
more  obscure.  We  could  well  spare  many  of  his  later  poems,  although 
the  very  last,  Asolando,  written  when  the  poet  was  over  seventy-five 
years  of  age,  contains  some  lyrics  equal  to  those  of  his  best  days. 
Browning  died  at  Venice  in  1889,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

That  much  of  Browning's  poetry  is  difficult  cannot  be  denied.  Still 
some  of  the  poems  are  much  easier  to  understand  than  others ;  and  if 
they  are  read  in  such  order  as  takes  this  into  account,  a  comprehen- 
sion of  the  peculiarities  of  their  author's  style  is  much  more  easily  ac- 
quired. The  short  poems  included  in  this  volume  are  among  the 
simpler  of  his  productions.  At  a  later  period  the  student  may  well 
supplement  them  by  Pippa  Passes,  The  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  Para- 
celsus, Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  Caliban  on  Setebos,  The  Death  in  the  Desert^ 
Saul,  Ferishtah's  Fancies,  and  many  another.  ] 


SONGS  FROM  PIPPA  PASSES 

I 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God : 

If  now,  as  formerly  he  trod 

Paradise,  his  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work  —  God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 

Are  we ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

n 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning's  at  seven ; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled ; 


INCIDENT  OF   THE  FRENCH   CAMP  309 

The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn : 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world  ! 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind.  8 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 
.    A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;    nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound.  16 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect  — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two.  f4 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 


3IO  BROWNING 

To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans. 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "     The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire.  32 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes ; 
"  You're  wounded  !  "     ''  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"  I'm  killed.  Sire  !  "     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead.  40 

THE  PATRIOT:    AN  OLD   STORY 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way. 
With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad : 

The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway. 
The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 

A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells. 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd  and  cries. 

Had  I  said,  "  Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels  — 
But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies  !  " 

They  had  answered,  "  And  afterward.,  what  else  ?  " 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 

To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep  ! 
Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone : 

And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 
This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run.  is 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now  — 

Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set ; 
For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 

At  the  Shambles'  Gate  —  or,  better  yet, 
By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow.  "^ 


HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD  311 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 

A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind ; 
And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 

For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds.  35 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go  ! 

In  triumphs  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"  Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

''  Me?  "  —  God  might  question;  now  instead, 
*Tis  God  shall  repay :  I  am  safer  so.  30 

^"' 
HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD 

I 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood  sheaf  5 

Round  the  elm- tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 

In  England  —  now  ! 

n 

And  after  April,  when  May  foUows, 

And  the  white  throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  !  10 

Hark  !  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 

That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture  is 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew. 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  httle  children's  dower 

-—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  !  20 


312  BROWNING 

'      HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  THE   SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North- West  died  away ; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay ; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay ; 
In  the  dimmest  North-East  distance  dawned  Gibraltar  grand 

and  gray ; 
"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me :  how  can  I  help  England  ?  " 

—  say,  5 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise  and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 

y   MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall. 

Looking  as  if  she  were  aHve.     I  call 

That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  PandoK's  hands 

Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?     I  said  s 

"  Fra  Pandolf  "  by  design,  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance. 

But  to  myseK  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  to 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst. 

How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first  j 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not  ^ 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps  is 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  *'  Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half -flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :  "  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  made  glad, 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS  313 

Too  easily  impressed ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one  !     My  favor  at  her  breast,  25 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  thq  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men,  —  good  !  but  thanked 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling  ?     Even  had  you  skill  35 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stoopiijg ;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt. 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?    This  grew ;  I  gave  commands ;  45 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.    Will't  please  you  rise  ?    We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence  s© 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity,  55 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me  ! 


314  BROWNING 

^       ANDREA  DEL   SARTO 

CALLED    "  THE   FAULTLESS   PAINTER  " 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia ;  bear  with  me  for  once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear,  s 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way. 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow.  Love  !  lo 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if  —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole,  15 

Both  of  one  mind,  a^  married  people  use. 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this  !  20 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither ;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 
It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so~—  25 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 
—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears. 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet  — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon. 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn. 
While  she  looks  —  no  one's :  very  dear,  no  less. 
\  You  smile  ?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made, 
'  There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO  315 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything,  —    j  35 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike, 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone,  you  know),  —  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  40 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top ; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything.  45 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape  | 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  seK 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now  looks  the  life  He  makes  us  lead ;         so 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I  feel  He  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  He ! 

This  chamber  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us  !    You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art,  ss 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door, 

—  It  is  the  thing.  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be  — 
Behold  Madonna  !  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,  60 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say  perfectly 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :  yourself  are  judge 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week,  65 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives,  I 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do,  70 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 


3l6  BROWNING 

Who  Strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  —  7S 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  —  so  much  less  ! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia :  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain,  80 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me. 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough,  85 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word  — • 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too.  | 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself,  90' 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken ;  what  of  that  ?  or  else. 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;  what  of  that  ?  '      95 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 

[  Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

\  Or  what's  a  heaven  for  ?    All  is  silver-gray, 

)  Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse  !  J 

1 1  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain;  10? 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself. 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  — "    No  doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago.  105 

('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all. 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way ;  1 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO  317 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there  again  — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right  —  that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm  !  and  I  could  alter  it :  115 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — • 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me  !    And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul,      |\ 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you  !  U 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think  —  120 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow. 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth. 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — ■  125 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  !   \' 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged, 

"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo  !  130 

Rafael  is  waiting :  up  to  God,  all  three  !  " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self : 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ?  \  135 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat  —  somewhat,  too,  the  power  ]— 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end,  j        140 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here. 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day,  145 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 


3l8  BROWNING 

Well  may  they  speak  !    That  Francis,  that  first  time, 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,  — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile. 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me. 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes. 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 
'Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts,  — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond. 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work. 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know  — 
( 'Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray. 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 
How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was  —  to  have  ended  there ;  then,  if 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray. 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife  "  — • 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence ;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  yoii  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 
(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO  319 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  littk  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how,  190 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings. 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  I  " 

To  Rafael's  !  —  And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see,  19s 

Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go  I 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out  1 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he  ?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo  ? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?)  200 

K  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost,  — 

Is,  whether  you're  —  not  grateful  — ■  but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed  I 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !    Another  smile  ? 

K  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night  205 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there's  a  star ; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall. 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by.  ^  210 

Come  from  the  window,  love,  —  come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me  :  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out,  215 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 

That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 

Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me  ?    Those  loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 


320  BROWNING 

h  Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth  ?        225 
I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 
.  One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Virgin's  face,  230 

Not  yours  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 
To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 
Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 
Will  you  ?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor,  23s 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 
What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about,  240 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 
Love,  does  that  please  you  ?     Ah,  but  what  does  he. 
The  Cousin  !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less.  245 

Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 

j  The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !  — ^  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 

'  And  built  this  house  and'  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want.  2 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich  !    Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died  : 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son  255 

Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try  ! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 

.  In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance  —    260 

I  Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA  321 

Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed,  I 

For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo,  and  me 

To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife, 

While  I  have  mine  !     So  —  still  they  overcome  26s 

Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  !     Go,  my  Love. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA 

I 

Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made. 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith,  "  A  whole  I  planned, 

Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid  ! 

n 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth  sighed,  "  Which  rose  make  ours. 

Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ?  " 

Not  that,  admiring  stars,  10 

It  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them  all !  " 

m 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years. 

Do  I  remonstrate ;  folly  wide  the  mark  !  is 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without. 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 

Were  men  but  formed  to  feed  20 


322  BROWNING 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast ; 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt  the  maw-crammed 
beast  ? 

V 

Rejoice  we  are  allied  25 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  1 
-— ^    A  ^parkjlisturbs  our  clod ; 
Nearer  we  hoBoF  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe.  30 

VI 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ;  3$ 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe  I 

vn 

For  thence,  —  a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks,  — • 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 

What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me : 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

vm 
What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ?  45 

-  To  man,  propose  this  test  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way  ? 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA 


323 


DC 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 

I  own  the  Past  profuse  50 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole. 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole ; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How  good  to  live  and  learn  "  ? 

X 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  Thine  !  55 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  Power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too : 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 

Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do  !  "    60 

XI 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold  65 

Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as  we  did  best ! 

XII 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole  !  " 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  70 

Let  us  cry  *'  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul !  " 

xni 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage. 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term :  7S 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though  in  the  germ. 


324  BROWNING 

XIV 
And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  go 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new : 
Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 

XV 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try  85 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby ; 

Leave  the  fire-ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame : 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute ;  I  shall  know,  being  old.  90 

XVI 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots  —  "  Add  this  to  the  rest,  95 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day." 

XVII 

So,  still  within  this  life. 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife. 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  lo© 

That  acquiescence  vain : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

xvni      • 
For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day :  los 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA  325 

XIX 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth,  no 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made : 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.     Thou  waitedst  age :  wait  death,  nor  be  afraid  ! 

XX 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right  •  us 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute. 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone.        120 

XXI 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small. 

Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned. 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained,  •  125 

Right  ?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last ! 

XXII 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 
^      Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

P      Match  me :  we  all  surmise. 

They  this  thing,  and  I  that :  whom  shall  my  soul  believe  ? 

XXIII 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 
Called  **  work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
Q       Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price :  ^^n 

^  O^er  which7from  leverstand7~' 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand. 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice : 


326  BROWNING 

XXIV 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb,  140 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure. 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount : 

XXV 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed  145 

Into  a  narrow  act. 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped ; 

All  I  could  never  be. 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped.    150 

XXVI 

'  Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  Hes  our  clay,  — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound. 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round,  155 

"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day  ! 

xxvn 

Fool !    All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 
i  What  entered  into  thee,  ^^""^ — ^  160  ' 

'   That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
'  Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

xxvin  ; 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance. 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest :  165 

Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  it^  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed.       ^ 


PROSPICE  327 

XXIX 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves, 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  xyo 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press  ? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim. 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 

XXX 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  !  17s 

To  uses  of  a  cup. 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal. 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow. 
The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou  with  earth's 
wheel  ?  180 

XXXI 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men ; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colors  rife,  \      185 

Bound  dizzily  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst : 

XXXII 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work : 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  !  ^     190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same  ! 

PROSPICE 

Fear  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 


328  BROWNING 

The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm,  5 

The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall,  10 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forebore,    is 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end. 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend- voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain,  25 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


EPILOGUE 

(to  asolando) 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where  —  by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
—  Pity  me  ? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken ! 
What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  329 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly  ? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless  did  I  drivel 

—  Being  —  who  ?  10 


One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward. 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break. 
Never   dreamed,    though   right   were   worsted,    wrong   would 

triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 

Sleep  to  wake.  is 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"  Strive  and  thrive  !  "  cry  "  Speed,  —  fight  on,  fare  ever 

There  as  here  !  "  20 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD    (1822-1888) 

In  our  survey  of  Victorian  poets  we  began  with  Macaulay,  whose 
stirring  verses  are  essentially  "  popular  "  and  especially  suited  to  the 
appreciation  of  the  youthful  and  the  general  reader,  Matthew 
Arnold,  who  could  not  tolerate  Macaulay,  sneered  at  what  he  called 
his  "  pinchbeck  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome/'  and  cared  nothing  for  the 
ordinary  reader,  appeals,  perhaps  more  than  any  other  English  poet, 
directly  and  almost  exclusively  to  the  cultivated  taste  of  the  educated 
class.  As  time  goes  on  it  seems  more  and  more  certain  that  Matthew 
Arnold  is  destined  "  to  live  "  in  the  esteem  of  this  growing  and  im- 
portant body  of  readers.  As  to  the  style  of  his  poetry,  we  may  merely 
call  attention  to  its  intellectual,  almost  academic  tone,  its  classic  purity 
and  restraint,  its  subtlety  of  thought  and  delicacy  of  feeling:  in 
many  respects  he  is  the  most  Greek  of  our  modern  poets. 

A  certain  prevailing  note  in  Arnold's  poetry  deserves  a  word  of 
discussion.  Many  of  his  poems  are  expressions  of  doubt  —  the 
earlier  poems  even  of  despair.  He  had  little  of  the  aggressive 
optimism  which  characterized  Browning,  whom  he  liked,  and 
Tennyson,  whom  he  vastly  underrated.    Neither  had  he  any  great 


330  TEE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  \ 

measure  of  that  trusting  faith  and  spiritual  insight  which  distin- 
guished Wordsworth  —  the  poet  of  all  poets  whom  he  sincerely  ad- 
mired and  acknowledged  as  his  master.  His  was  rather  a  dignified, 
sweet,  and  mournful  questioning  of  Providence,  attended  by  a  calm 
and  steady  resignation  to  the  inevitable.  Though  of  rich  scholarship 
and  active  mind,  he  was  not  a  constructive  artist.  He  was  an  inter- 
preter of  other  minds  and  phases  of  thought  rather  than  a  seer.  Yet 
Arnold  was  distinctively  a  modern  man  who  looked  at  life  and  its 
problems  from  a  modern  point  of  view.  And  though,  as  we  have  in- 
timated, he  often  doubts  whether  there  is  a  satisfactory  solution  of 
these  problems,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  he  everywhere  insists  on 
the  necessity  of  an  earnest,  self-reliant  endeavor  to  solve  them. 

Arnold  devoted  only  the  earlier  years  of  his  life  to  poetry ;  the  later 
years  were  almost  wholly  given  over  to  prose.  Whereas  his  poetry 
seemed  to  be  an  attempt  to  criticise  life  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
feelings,  his  prose  was  a  criticism  of  Hfe  from  the  point  of  view  of  in- 
tellect. The  former  is  therefore  marked  by  conflict  and  questionings ; 
the  latter  by  directness  and  decisiveness.  Accordingly,  whatever  may 
be  Matthew  Arnold's  ultimate  reputation  as  a  poet,  his  prose  will  un- 
doubtedly entitle  him  to  consideration  as  one  of  the  most  important 
figures  in  nineteenth-century  criticism. 

1822-1845.  —  Arnold  was  born  on  Christmas  Eve,  1822,  at  Lale- 
ham,  a  little  town  some  twenty  miles  west  of  London.  His  father, 
Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  the  famous  headmaster  of  Rugby,  was  a  writer 
of  no  little  prominence,  and  one  of  the  most  honored,  best  loved  teach- 
ers the  world  has  ever  known.  Young  Arnold's  early  education  was 
received  largely  under  his  father's  eye  at  Rugby;  and  there  in  his 
eighteenth  year  he  won  a  scholarship  in  Balliol  College,  Oxford.  After 
four  years'  residence  at  the  University,  he  was  elected  to  a  fellowship 
in  Oriel  —  a  distinguished  honor  which  had  also  fallen  to  his  father 
some  thirty  years  before.  His  scholastic  attainments,  both  from 
college  training  and  from  subsequent  study,  were  of  the  highest  order. 

1 845-1 857.  —  Shortly  after  obtaining  his  fellowship,  Arnold  left 
college.  He  taught  Latin  and  Greek  at  Rugby  for  a  time;  then,  in 
1847,  became  private  secretary  to  Lord  Lansdowne  —  a  position  which 
he  held  for  four  years.  In  185 1  he  accepted  an  appointment  as  gov- 
ernment Inspector  of  Schools.  To  this  office  he  devoted  thirty-five 
years  of  laborious  and  faithful  service,  becoming  one  of  England's 
foremost  leaders  in  education.  His  first  volume  of  verse  was 
published  in  1849,  when  he  was  twenty-six  years  of  age.  Though 
this  little  book  contained  several  of  his  best  poems  —  The  For- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  33 j 

saken  Merman  and  the  Sonnet  on  Shakespeare  among  others  —  it 
attracted  almost  no  attention  and  was  soon  withdrawn  from  circula- 
tion. Three  years  later  a  second  volume  appeared,  with  like  results, 
though  it  included  such  excellent  representation  of  Greek  thought 
as  the  Empedocles  on  Etna.  The  next  year  a  third  volume  was  pub- 
lished, containing,  among  other  new  poems,  Requiescat,  The  Scholar 
Gypsy,  and  Sohrab'  and  Rustum,  the  last  of  which  some  critics  consider 
the  author's  masterpiece.  But  the  prose  essay  which  preceded  this 
third  volume,  and  gave  utterance  to  Arnold's  theory  of  poetry,  was 
the  most  important  of  his  writings  so  far.  It  was  the  first  of  a 
long  series  of  brilliant,  critical  prose  works.  In  1855  appeared  Balder 
Dead,  one  of  his  longer  and  more  highly  polished  poems.  At  this 
time,  though  his  circle  of  readers  was  not  large,  his  reputation  .as  a 
poet  was  assured,  and  it  led  to  his  election,  in  1857,  to  the  Professor- 
ship of  Poetry  at  Oxford. 

1 857-1 888.  —  What  time  Arnold  could  spare  from  his  duties  at 
Oxford,  which  were  light,  and  from  his  inspectorship,  he  spent  in 
writing.  His  tragedy  of  Merope,  "  a  Greek  play  in  English  dress," 
was  published  in  1858.  His  famous  Essays  in  Criticism  appeared  in 
1865.  His  volume,  of  New  Poems,  two  years  later,  almost  the  last 
of  his  poetical  efforts,  included  Dover  Beach  and  Thyrsis,  the  latter 
a  lament  called  forth  by  the  death  of  his  friend  Clough,  and  often 
reckoned  among  the  great  English  elegies.  For  the  remaining  twenty 
years  of  his  life,  Arnold's  work  consisted  almost  entirely  of  prose  essays 
in  criticism,  philosophy,  and  religion.  He  lectured  in  the  United 
States  in  1883,  and  again  three  years  later,  at  which  time  he  resigned 
the  educational  office  he  had  held  so  long.  His  busy  life  was  soon 
after  suddenly  ended  by  heart  disease,  March,  1888. 

In  selecting  poems  of  Arnold  for  this  book,  we  have,  except  in  the 
case  of  Dover  Beach,  purposely  avoided  those  which  are  most  typical 
—  poems  of  the  doubtful  or  sceptical  mood  —  and  have  chosen  a  few 
of  the  more  attractive  productions  in  lyrical  strain. 

THE   FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away ; 

Down  and  away  below  ! 

Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 

Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow 

Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow ;  s 


332  ARNOLD 

Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go  —  lo 

Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know : 

"  Margaret !  Margaret !  " 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear ;  15 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain  — 

Surely  she  will  come  again  ! 

Call  her  once  and  come  away ; 

This  way,  this  way  ! 

"  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  !  20 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down ; 

Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-walled  town,  25 

And  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  shore ; 

Then  come  down  ! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day ; 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ? 

In  the  caverns  wh^re  we  lay, 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 

The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 

Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep,  35 

Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep ; 

Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 

Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 

Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round. 

Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground ;  4° 

Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 


TEE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN  333 

Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine : 

Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 

Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 

Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye  ?  45 

When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me,  so 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 

She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well. 

When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 

She  sighed,  she  looked  up  through  the  clear  green  sea ;  55 

She  said :  ''  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 

In  the  little  grey  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 

'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world  —  ah  me  ! 

And  I  lose  my  poor  soul.  Merman  !  here  with  thee." 

I  said :  "  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves ;  60 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea-caves  !  " 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 
"  The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan ;  65 

Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "  in  the  world  they  say ; 
Come  !  "  I  said ;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-walled  town ; 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where  all  was  still,  70 

To  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their  prayers, 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climbed  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn  with  rains. 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded  panes.  75 
She  sate  by  the  pillar ;  we  saw  her  clear : 
"  Margaret,  hist !  come  quick,  we  are  here  ! 


334  ARNOLD 

Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone ; 

The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 

But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look,  80 

For  her  eyes  were  sealed  to  the  holy  book  ! 

Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door. 

Come  away,  children,  caU  no  more  ! 

Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more ! 

Down,  down,  down  !  85 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea ! 

She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 

Singing  most  joyfully. 

Hark  what  she  sings :  "  O  joy,  O  joy, 

For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy  !      90 

For  the  priest,  and  the  beU,  and  the  holy  well ; 

For  the  wheel  where  I  spun. 

And  the  blessed  Hght  of  the  sim !  " 

And  so  she  sings  her  fill. 

Singing  most  joyfully,  9S 

Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand. 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand, 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare ;  100 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh. 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye. 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,  long  sigh ;  105 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children ; 
Come,  children,  come  down  ! 

The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly ;  no 

Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door ; 


TO  MARGUERITE  33$ 

She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 

Will  hear  the  waves  roar.  us 

We  shall  see,  while  above  us 

The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 

A  ceiling  of  amber, 

A  pavement  of  pearl. 

Singing :  "  Here  came  a  mortal,  120 

But  faithless  was  she  ! 

And  alone  dwell  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 

When  soft  the  winds  blow,  125 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 

When  spring-tides  are  low ; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starred  with  broom. 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly  130 

On  the  blanched  sands  a  gloom ; 

Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches. 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie, 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry.  13s 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side  — • 

And  then  come  back  down. 

Singing :  "  There  dwells  a  loved  one,  140 

But  cruel  is  she  ! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

TO  MARGUERITE 

Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 
With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 
Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild. 
We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 


336  ARNOLD 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know.  6 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
*  The  nightingales  divinely  sing, 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour,  —  12 

Oh  !  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent ; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent ! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain : 

Oh,  might  our  marges  meet  again  !  18 

Who  ordered  that  their  longing's  fire 

Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cooled  ? 

Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  ? 

A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled  ! 

And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 

The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea.  24 


RUGBY  CHAPEL 

NOVEMBER,    1 85  7 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 

The  autunm  evening.    The  field 

Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 

Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

Fade  into  dimness  apace. 

Silent ;  —  hardly  a  shout 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play  ! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street, 

In  the  school-room  windows ;  —  but  cold, 

Solemn,  unlighted,  austere, 


RUGBY  CHAPEL  337 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 
The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 
Thou,  my  father  !  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah  !  is 

That  word,  gloom,  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back,  in  the  light 

Of  thy  radiant  vigor,  again ; 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  passed 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side ;  20 

Seasons  impaired  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast !  and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening,  and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee.  25 

Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 

Since  thou  arosest  to  tread. 

In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 

Of  death,  at  a  call  unforeseen, 

Sudden.     For  fifteen  years,  30 

We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 

Rested  as  under  the  boughs 

Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 

Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might, 

Bare,  unshaded,  alone,  3S 

Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore  . 

Tarriest  thou  now  ?     For  that  force,  I 

Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain  ! 

Somewhere,  surely,  afar,  40 

In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 

Of  being,  is  practised  the  strength 

Zealous,  beneficent,  firm  ! 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere,    ^ 

Conscious  or  not  of  the  past,  45 


338  ARNOLD 

Still  thou  performest  the  word 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live  — 
•        Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here  ! 
Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 

The  humble  good  from  the  ground,  so 

Sternly  repressest  the  bad  ! 
Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 
Those  who  with  half -open  eyes 
Tread  the  border-land  dim 

'Twixt  vice  and  virtue ;  reviv'st,  ss 

Succorest !  —  this  was  thy  work, 
This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

Vthat  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth  ?  — 
Most  men  eddy  about  60 

Here  and  there  —  eat  and  drink, 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate,  j 

Gather  and  squander,  are  raised  j 

oft,  are  hurled  in  the  dust,  j 

triving  blindly,  achieving  65 

othing ;  and  then  they  die  — 
Perish ;  —  and  no  one  asks  j 

Who  or  what  they  have  been,  I 

More  than  he  asks  what  waves,  I 

In  the  moonlit  sohtudes  mild  70 

■  Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swelled. 
Foamed  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 

Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires. 

Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent,  75 

Not  without  aim  to  go  round 

In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 

Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 

Ah  yes  !  some  of  us  strive 

Not  without  action  to  die  80 

Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 


RUGBY  CHAPEL  339 

From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 

Glut  the  devouring  grave  ! 

We,  we  have  chosen  our  path  — 

Path  to  a  clear  purposed  goal,  85 

Path  of  advance  !  —  but  it  leads 

A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 

Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 

Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth  — 

Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm.  90 

Thunder  crashes  from  rock 

To  rock,  the  cataracts  reply, 

Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes. 

Roaring  torrents  have  breached 

The  track,  the  stream-bed  descends  95 

In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 

Planted  his  footstep  —  the  spray 

Boils  o'er  its  borders  !  aloft 

The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 

Their  hanging  ruin ;  alas,  100 

Havoc  is  made  in  our  train  ! 

Friends,  who  set  forth  at  our  side, 

Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 

We,  we  only  are  left ! 

With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips  105 

Sternly  compressed,  we  strain  on. 

On  —  and  at  nightfall  at  last 

Come  to  the  end  of  our  way. 

To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks ; 

Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host  no 

Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind    - 

Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs  — 

Holds  his  lantern  to  scan  / 

Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks 

Whom  in  our  party  we  bring  ?  ns 

Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow  ? 

Sadly  we  answer :  We  bring 

Only  ourselves  !  we  lost 

Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 


340 


ARNOLD 

Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through,  120 

Stripped,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 
Friends,  companions,  and  train. 
The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  would'st  not  alone 

Be  saved,  my  father  !  alone  1; 

Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 

Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 

We  were  weary,  and  we  j 

Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march  ' 

Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die.  130 

Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 

Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 

Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 

If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world. 

Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet,  135 

Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 

Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 

Nothing  —  to  us  thou  wast  still 

Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm ! 

Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given  140 

Many  to  save  with  thyself ; 

And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 

O  faithful  shepherd  !  to  come. 

Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 


And  through  thee  I  believe  145 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone ; 

Pure  souls  honored  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else  — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor, 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see  —  150 

Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart. 

Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes  !  I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 


RUGBY  CHAPEL      \  ^41 

1 

Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd  15s 

Who  all  round  me  to-day 

Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile ; 

But  souls  tempered  with  fire, 

Fervent,  heroic,  and  good,  160 

Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God !  —  or  sons 

Shall  I  not  call  you  ?  because 

Not  as  servants  ye  knew 

Your  Father's  innermost  mind,  165 

His,  who  unwillingly  sees 

One  of  his  little  ones  lost  — 

Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 

Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 

Fainted,  and  fallen,  and  died  !  170 

See  !     In  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending  ?  —  A  God 

Marshalled  them,  gave  them  their  goal.  175 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long  ! 

Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild  ! 

Sore  thirst  plagues  them,  the  rocks, 

Rising  all  round,  overawe ; 

Factions  divide  them,  their  host  180 

Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 

—  Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined  ! 

Else  of  the  myriads  who  fill 

That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive ; 

Sole  they  shall  stray ;  in  the  rocks  185 

Stagger  for  ever  in  vain, 

Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 


342  ARNOLD 


Ye,  like  angels,  appear,  190 

Radiant  with  ardor  divine  ! 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear  ! 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart. 

Weakness  is  not  in  your  word. 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow.  195 

Ye  alight  in  our  van  !  at  your  voice, 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave  !  200 

Order,  courage,  return, 

Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers. 

Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 

Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 

Strengthen  the  wavering  line,  205 

Stablish,  continue  our  march, 

On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste, 

On,  to  the  City  of  God. 


DOVER  BEACH 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits ;  —  on  the  French  coast  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone ;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand. 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air  ! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched  sand. 

Listen  !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling. 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand. 

Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin. 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 


REQUIESCAT  343 

Sophocles  long  ago  is 

Heard  it  on  the  ^Egean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery ;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea.  20 

The  sea  of  faith 
Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 
But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar,  25 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night- wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another  !  for  the  world,  which  seems  30' 

To  he  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  hght. 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain  35 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew  ! 

In  quiet  she  reposes ; 
Ah,  would  that  I  did  so  too  ! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 


344  THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound,  lo 

But  for  peace  her  heart  was  yearning, 

And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabined,  ample  spirit, 

It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit  15 

The  vasty  hall  of  death. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH   (1828-1909) 

George  Meredith's  novels  are  better  known  than  his  poems,  but 
the  latter  alone  would  give  him  clear  title  to  permanent  fame.  His 
poetic  style  reveals  the  passionate  zest  with  which  he  questioned 
and  interpreted  or,  as  he  would  say,  read  life.  It  is  intense,  subtle, 
energetically  abrupt;  concentrated  and  vital  in  respect  of  feeling, 
.idea,  and  phrase ;  amazingly,  sensuously  rich  when  he  turns  to  natural 
beauty;  vivid  and  sympathetic  in  realistic  portraiture:  a  style  all 
his  own.  His  dramatic  monologues  are,  indeed,  reminiscent  of  Brown- 
ing's method,  and  in  both  his  prose  and  verse  there  is  frequently  a 
Browningesque  obscurity,  for  he  takes  but  little  care  to  explain  the 
sequence  of  his  thought  and  is  often  jerky  and  strained  in  expression ; 
but  the  style  is  essentially  original. 

When  he  writes  of  the  truth  and  charm  of  natiure  or  of  the  every- 
day aspects  of  human  life  without  trying  to  philosophize  too  deeply  — 
as  in  Grandfather  Bridgeman,  The  Beggar's  Soliloquy,  The  Old  Chartist, 
The  Orchard  and  the  Heath,  and  the  two  poems  included  in  this  volume. 
Juggling  Jerry  and  Martin's  Puzzle  —  he  is  simple  as  well  as  inspiring. 
His  greater  poems  of  nature,  such  as  The  Woods  of  Westermain,  The 
Lark  Ascending,  and  Autumn  Even-Song,  are  more  difficult ;  so,  too, 
is  the  beautiful  Love  in  the  Valley.  His  most  ambitious  poem,  Modern 
Love,  has  passages  of  high  imagination,  philosophical  depth,  and 
isolated  splendor,  but  is  altogether  too  complex  and  disjointed  to 
hold  the  interest  of  the  general  reader. 

About  Meredith's  way  of  regarding  nature  and  himaanity  a  word 
should  be  said.  He,  like  Browning,  Tennyson,  and  Arnold,  partook 
of  the  spiritual  unrest  that  had  been  aroused  by  the  new  theory  of 
evolution  announced  simultaneously  in  1858  by  Charles  Darwin  and 
Alfred  Russel  Wallace  and  expounded  in  1859  by  Darwin's  epoch- 
making  work,  On  the  Origin  of  Species  by  Means  of  Natural  Selection. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  345 

This  work,  by  its  implications,  at  least,  seemed  at  first  to  upset  all 
that  religion  had  taught  concerning  the  history  of  the  earth  and  the 
creation  and  development  of  man.  Browning  thought  that  he  sym- 
pathized with  the  new  theory,  but  in  fact  he  opposed  it.  In  his  view, 
the  mind  and  conscience  of  man  had  always  been  essentially  different 
from  anything  possessed  by  the  brute  creation,  had  always  been  allied 
to  the  divine,  always  progressing  upward.  He  believed  mightily  in  a 
personal  God  and  in  personal  immortaUty.  Tennyson  studied  the 
new  theory  with  an  open  mind  and  was  much  perplexed  by  the  scien- 
tific discoveries  of  the  day,  but  he  stretched  hands  of  faith  to  what  he 
felt  was  "  Lord  of  all."  He  trusted  that  "  somehow  good  will  be  the 
final  goal  of  ill,"  that  God  cares  for  the  individual  soul,  and  that  "  not 
one  life  shall  be  destroyed."  Arnold  rejected  all  the  miraculous  ele- 
ment of  religion  and  even  the  idea  of  a  personal  God.  But  he  did 
believe  in  a  Divine  Providence  whose  existence  has  been  proved  by 
all  human  experience.  He  believed  in  the  Eternal,  the  "  enduring 
power,  which  is  not  ourselves,"  but  which,  we  know,  works  in  us  and 
"  makes  for  righteousness,"  —  a  Power  "  by  which  all  things  fulfil  their 
being."  Faith,  in  Arnold's  sense,  is  holding  fast  to  this  "  unseen  power 
of  goodness,"  and  immortality  is  not  so  much  the  persistence  of  in- 
dividual life  beyond  the  grave  as  an  entering  into  a  new  and  trans- 
figured existence  here  and  now  through  love  and  joy  and  service  to 
our  fellow  beings.  But  all  this  that  Arnold  says  cautiously  and  with 
an  attempt  not  to  shock  our  belief  in  a  personal  God,  Meredith,  rely- 
ing upon  human  reason  alone  and  the  teaching  of  science,  says  openly. 
He  "  regards  man  as  differing  from  the  animals  only  in  degree,  not  in 
essence,"  but  he  has  high  faith  in  a  God  who  is  revealed  to  human 
intelligence  through  eternal  law.  Reason  and  morals,  he  thinks,  are 
gradually  developed  in  man  as  a  natural  being,  and  the  hope  for  the 
future  lies  in  the  progress  of  the  race  rather  than  in  the  persistence  of 
the  individual  as  a  being  endowed  with  immortality. 

Thus,  though  in  his  poetry  of  nature  Meredith  inherits  the  philoso- 
phizing tradition  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  his  reading  of  earth 
and  human  life  is  different.  And  this  altered  view  of  life  is  not  only 
Meredith's  but  also  that  of  other  poets  who  were  his  contemporaries 
or  who  followed  him.  To  understand  Swinburne,  Henley,  Davidson, 
James  Stephens,  Rupert  Brooke,  and  others,  and  to  judge  their  message 
for  what  it  is  worth,  some  knowledge  of  this  view,  even  though  one 
differ  from  it,  is  necessary. 

1828-1851.  —  Meredith  was  of  Welsh  descent.  He  was  born  in 
Hampshire,  February  12,  1828,  and  received  part  of  his  early  educa- 


346  MEREDITH 

tion  in  Germany.  He  entered  upon  the  study  of  the  law  but  turned 
at  an  early  age  to  literature.  His  first  volume  of  poems  appeared  in 
1851,  but  attracted  little  attention.  Tennyson,  however,  said  of  Love 
in  the  Valley  that  he  could  not  get  its  lines  out  of  his  head. 

1851-1885.  —  Somewhat  discouraged  he  turned  to  fiction  and  pro- 
duced in  1855  the  first  of  a  remarkable  series  of  novels  —  twenty  or 
more  —  which  appeared  to  occupy  him  to  the  full  for  the  next  forty 
years.  Among  them  may  be  mentioned  as  especially  significant  The 
Egoist,  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  and 
Rhoda  Fleming.  Characterized  by  wide  observation  of  social  and 
political  life,  minute  analysis  of  character,  and  a  new  statement  of 
what  morahty  means,  his  novels  are  both  true  to  everyday  life  and 
deeply  philosophical.  With  their  genuine  humor,  their  witty  and 
epigrammatic  style,  and  their  poetic  quality,  they  are  totally  unlike 
other  English  novels,  and  there  is  a  school  of  readers  that  regards  them 
as  the  flower  of  fiction  in  the  Victorian  age.  But  their  philosophical 
method  and  their  highly  intellectual  and  frequently  difiicult  style 
di^  not  commend  them  to  many  readers.  Meredith's  fame  grew  slowly. 
Diana  of  the  Crossways,  published  in  1885,  was  his  first  work  to  catch 
the  attention  of  the  general  pubUc.  In  the  meantime  were  published 
two  volumes  of  poems.  Modern  Love  (1862)  and  Poems  and  Lyrics 
of  the  Joy  of  Earth  (1883). 

1 885-1 909.  —  In  1887  another  volume  of  poems  appeared.  Ballads 
and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life,  and  yet  another  the  following  year,  A 
Reading  of  Earth,  to  which  A  Reading  of  Life  (1901)  was  a  companion 
volume.  These  and  other  poems  are  included  in  the  191 2  edition  of 
his  collected  poetical  works  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  N.  Y.).  In 
his  poems  is  to  be  found  Meredith's  most  careful  statement  of  his 
scheme  of  philosophy.  The  novels  written  after  his  sixtieth  year  show 
an  increase  of  mannerism  and  a  certain  decrease  in  power.  In  his 
old  age  Meredith  enjoyed  the  ever  growing  popularity  of  his  works 
and  the  admiration  of  a  wide  circle  of  readers.  In  1905  he  was  pre- 
sented with  the  Order  of  Merit,  a  very  distinguished  decoration,  and 
on  his  eightieth  birthday  he  received  in  an  especial  address  the  homage 
and  congratulations  of  the  English  literary  world.  A  Httle  more  than 
one  year  later.  May  18, 1909,  he  died  at  Box  HiU,  a  suburb  of  London, 
where  he  had  Hved  in  retirement  for  thirty  years. 


JUGGLING  JERRY  347 

JUGGLING  JERRY 

Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we'll  halt  a  stage. 
It's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies :  > 

My  next  leaf'U  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl !  and  it's  no  use  crying : 

Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 
One  that  outjuggles  all's  been  spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now.  s 

We've  travelled  times  to  this  old  common : 

Often  we've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman  I 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  grey  horse. 
Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call : 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  our  stations : 

There's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all !  16 

Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  all  were  jolly  ! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
Easy  to  think  that  grieving's  folly. 

When  the  hand's  firm  as  driven  stakes  ! 
Ay,  when  we're  strong,  and  braced,  and  manful. 

Life's  a  sweet  fiddle :  but  we're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Great  Juggler's  han'ful : 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch.  24 

Here's  where  the  lads  of  the  village  cricket : 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here : 
Couldn't  I  whip  off  the  bale  from  the  wicket  ? 

Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear  ! 
Donkey,  sheep,  geese  and  thatched  ale-house  — 
I  know  them ! 

They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and  seem, 
Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them : 

Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem.  32 


348  MEREDITH 

Juggling's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual  : 

Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no  little ; 

But,  to  increase  it,  hard  juggling's  the  rule. 
You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession, 

Haven't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount  ? 
There's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Session 

Juggles  more  games  than  my  sins'll  count.  40 

I've  murdered  insects  with  mock  thunder : 

Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 
I've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder : 

That's  my  business,  and  there's  my  tale. 
Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  professor : 

Ay  !  and  I've  had  my  smile  from  the  Queen : 
Bravo,  Jerry  !  she  meant :    God  bless  her  ! 

Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene  ?  48 

I've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvy 

Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true. 
Some  are  j&ne  fellows :  some,  right  scurvy : 

Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 
But  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more  kindly  of  the  race : 
And  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes  me 

When  the  Great  Juggler  I  must  face.  s6 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal : 
Honest  we've  lived  since  we've  been  one. 

Lord  !    I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle : 
You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun. 

Birds  in  a  May-bush  we  were  !    right  merry  i 

Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry  ! 
Now  from  his  old  girl  he's  juggled  away. 

,  It's  past  parsons  to  console  us : 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me : 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus ; 
Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree  ! 


JUGGLING  JERRY  349 

Parson  and  Doctor  !  —  don't  they  love  rarely- 
Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields ! 

Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly : 
Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields  !  72 

I,  lass,  have  lived  no  gipsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs ; 
Coin  I've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  wanting : 

You  sha'n't  beg  from  the  troughs  and  tubs. 
Nobly  you've  stuck  to  me,  though  in  his  kitchen 

Many  a  Marquis  would  hail  you  Cook  ! 
Palaces  you  could  have  ruled  and  grown  rich  in, 

But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook.  80 

Hand  up  the  chirper  !  ripe  ale  winks  in  it ; 

Let's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a  stout  draught  made  rne  light  as  a  linnet. 

Cheer  up  I  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May  be  — •  for  none  see  in  that  black  hollow  — 

It's  just  a  place  where  we're  held  in  pawn, 
And,  when  the  Great  Juggler  makes  as  to  swallow, 

It's  just  the  sword-trick  —  I  ain't  quite  gone.  88 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 

Gold-like  and  warm  :  it's  the  prime  of  May. 
Better  than  mortar,  brick,  and  putty, 

Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound ;  now  I  feel  it : 

All  the  old  heath-smells  !    Ain't  it  strange  ? 
There's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal  it ! 

But  He's  by  us,  juggling  the  change.  96 

I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 

Once  —  it's  long  gone  —  when  two  gulls  we  beheld, 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 

Down  a  big  wave  that  sparked  and  swelled. 
Crack,  went  a  gun :  one  fell :  the  second 

Wheeled  round  him  twice,  and  was  off  for  new  luck : 
There  in  the  dark  her  white  wing  beckoned :  — 

Drop  me  a  kiss  —  I'm  the  bird  dead-struck  !  104 


350  MEREDITH 

MARTIN'S  PUZZLE 

There  she  goes  up  the  street  with  her  book  in  her  hand, 

And  her,  ''  Good  morning,  Martin  !  "    ''  Ay,  lass,  how  d'ye 

do?" 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  Martin  !/'  —  I  can't  understand  !       ■ 

I  might  just  as  well  never  have  cobbled  a  shoe  ! 
I  can't  understand  it.     She  talks  like  a  song ; 

Her  voice  takes  your  ear  like  the  ring  of  a  glass ; 
She  seems  to  give  gladness  while  limping  along, 

Yet  sinner  ne'er  suffered  like  that  little  lass.  8 

First,  a  fool  of  a  boy  ran  her  down  with  a  cart. 

Then,  her  fool  of  a  father  —  a  blacksmith  by  trade  — 
Why  the  deuce  does  he  tell  us  it  half  broke  his  heart  ? 

His  heart !  —  where's  the  leg  of  the  poor  little  maid  ! 
Well,  that's  not  enough ;  they  must  push  her  downstairs, 

To  make  her  go  crooked :  but  why  count  the  list  ? 
If  it's  right  to  suppose  that  our  human  affairs 

Are  all  ordered  by  heaven  —  there,  bang  goes  my  fist !      i6 

For  if  angels  can  look  on  such  sights  —  never  mind  ! 

When  you're  next  to  blaspheming,  it's  best  to  be  mimi. 
The  parson  declares  that  her  woes  weren't  designed ; 

But,  then,  with  the  parson  it's  all  kingdom-come. 
Lose  a  leg,  save  a  soul  —  a  convenient  text ; 

I  call  it  Tea  doctrine,  not  savoring  of  God. 
When  poor  little  Molly  wants  '  chastening,'  why,  next 

The  Archangel  Michael  might  taste  of  the  rod.  24 

But,  to  see  the  poor  darling  go  limping  for  miles 

To  read  books  to  sick  people  !  —  and  just  of  an  age 
When  girls  learn  the  meaning  of  ribands  and  smiles  ! 

Makes  me  feel  like  a  squirrel  that  turns  in  a  cage. 
The  more  I  push  thinking  the  more  I  revolve : 

I  never  get  farther :  —  and  as  to  her  face. 
It  starts  up  when  near  on  my  puzzle  I  solve. 

And  says,  "  This  crushed  body  seems  such  a  sad  case."     32 


MARTIN'S  PUZZLE  351 

Not  that  she's  for  complaining :  she  reads  to  earn  pence ; 

And  from  those  who  can't  pay,  simple  thanks  are  enough. 
Does  she  leave  lamentation  for  chaps  without  sense  ? 

Howsoever,  she's  made  up  of  wonderful  stuff. 
Ay,  the  soul  in  her  body  must  be  a  stout  cord ; 

She  sings  little  hymns  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
Though  she  has  but  three  fingers  to  lift  to  the  Lord, 

And  only  one  leg  to  kneel  down  with  to  pray.  40 

What  I  ask  is,  Why  persecute  such  a  poor  dear, 

If  there's  Law  above  all  ?     Answer  that  if  you  can  ! 
Irreligious  I'm  not ;  but  I  look  on  this  sphere 

As  a  place  where  a  man  should  just  think  like  a  man. 
It  isn't  fair  dealing  !     But,  contrariwise. 

Do  bullets  in  battle  the  wicked  select  ? 
Why,  then  it's  all  chance-work  !    And  yet,  in  her  eyes. 

She  holds  a  fixed  something  by  which  I  am  checked.         48 

Yonder  riband  of  sunshine  aslope  on  the  wall, 

If  you  eye  it  a  minute'U  have  the  same  look : 
So  kind  !  and  so  merciful !     God  of  us  all ! 

It's  the  very  same  lesson  we  get  from  the  Book. 
Then,  is  Life  but  a  trial  ?     Is  that  what  is  meant  ? 

Some  must  toil,  and  some  perish,  for  others  below : 
The  injustice  to  each  spreads  a  common  content ; 

x\y  !  I've  lost  it  again,  for  it  can't  be  quite  so.  56 

She's  the  victim  of  fools :  that  seems  nearer  the  mark. 

On  earth  there  are  engines  and  numerous  fools. 
Why  the  Lord  can  permit  them,  we're  still  in  the  dark ; 

He  does,  and  in  some  sort  of  way  they're  His  tools, 
It's  a  roundabout  way,  with  respect  let  me  add, 

If  Molly  goes  crippled  that  we  may  be  taught : 
But,  perhaps,  it's  the  only  way,  though  it's  so  bad ; 

In  that  case  we'll  bow  down  our  heads,  —  as  we  ought.    64 

But  the  worst  of  me  is,  that  when  I  bow  my  head, 
I  perceive  a  thought  wriggling  away  in  the  dust, 


352  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

And  I  follow  its  tracks,  quite  forgetful,  instead 
Of  humble  acceptance :  for,  question  I  must ! 

Here's  a  creature  made  carefully  —  carefully  made  ! 

Put  together  with  craft,  and  then  stamped  on,  and  why  ? 

The  answer  seems  nowhere :  it's  discord  that's  played. 

The  sky's  a  blue  dish  !  —  an  implacable  sky  !  72 


Stop  a  moment :  I  seize  an  idea  from  the  pit. 

They  tell  us  that  discord,  though  discord  alone, 
Can  be  harmony  when  the  notes,  properly  fit : 

Am  I  judging  all  things  from  a  single  false  tone  ? 
Is  the  Universe  one  immense  Organ,  that  rolls 

From  devils  to  angels  ?  I'm  blind  with  the  sight. 
It  pours  such  a  splendor  on  heaps  of  poor  souls  ! 

I  might  try  at  kneeling  with  Molly  to-night.  80 


5.  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE:   POETRY  OF  CHIVALRY 

Under  this  heading  we  have  included  three  of  the  most  delightful 
of  modern  English  poems.  One  of  them  is  the  work  of  an  American 
poet.  The  other  two  are  the  work  of  Tennyson,  and  form  a  part  of 
the  wonderful  series  entitled  Idylls  of  the  King.  They  are  all  derived 
from  early  Celtic  legend,  and  have  been  preserved  through  British 
tradition  and  English  literature  for  more  than  a  thousand  years. 
The  following  is  a  very  brief  account  of  the  origin  and  history  of 
the  legends  treated  in  these  poems. 

Sometime  shortly  before  11 50  a  Welsh  priest,  Geoffrey  of  Mon- 
mouth as  he  was  called,  put  together  in  twelve  short  books  of  Latin 
prose  what  purported  to  be  a  history  of  the  early  kings  of  Britain 
{Historia  Regum  Britannice).  Besides  telling  the  stories  of  King 
Lear  and  of  Locrine  (father  of  the  Sabrina  of  Milton's  Comus),  this 
"  history  "  gives  a  long  account  of  the  more  than  half -legendary  "  King 
Arthur,"  who  is  fabled  to  have  died  about  550  a.d.,  or  six  hundred 
years  before  the  time  of  Geoffrey.  Geoffrey  says  that  he  derived  his 
stories  from  earlier  Celtic  writers ;  he  was  certainly  indebted  to  early 
Celtic  tradition,  perhaps  of  Brittany  as  well  as  of  Wales  and  Ireland. 
This  so-called  History  had  scarcely  been  written  before  it  was  turned 
into  French  verse  by  a  certain  Geoffrey  Gaimar,  and  in  this  way  it 
passed  over  into  France.    Not  more  than  five  years  elapsed  before  it 


POETRY  OF  CHIVALRY  353 

was  retranslated  and  added  to  by  Wace,  another  poet  of  the  Norman- 
French.  Thus  during  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century  the  story 
was  constantly  enlarged  and  altered,  in  verse  and  in  prose,  by  the 
writers  of  both  England  and  the  Continent.  Among  the  additions 
of  this  period  was  that  of  Walter  Map,  a  Welshman,  who  is  supposed 
to  have  combined  with  the  original  Arthurian  legend  the  legend  of 
the  Holy  Grail. 

So  far  the  story  had  appeared  only  in  the  original  Latin  of  Geoffrey, 
and  in  the  French  or  Norman-French  versions  of  his  translators.  But 
about  1205  an  English  priest  named  Layamon  felt  inspired  to  tell  in 
his  own  language  the  story  of  those  "  who  first  had  English  land." 
Accordingly,  from  the  translations  of  Wace  and  other  Normans,  as 
well  as  from  Celtic  legends  and  Teutonic  sagas  which  he  himself  knew, 
he  built  up,  in  the  purest  of  English  verse,  a  wonderful  poem  of  over 
thirty  thousand  lines.  This  poem  he  called  the  Brut,  from  the  re- 
puted founder  of  Britain,  Brutus,  great-grandson  of  ^neas.  In  this 
poem  the  original  story  gains  numerous  additions.  Among  these  are 
the  episodes  of  the  founding  of  the  Round  Table  and  the  mysteries 
attending  the  birth  and  the  "  passing  "  of  Arthur. 

From  the  first,  "  King  Arthur  "  proved  the  most  popular  of  the 
many  romantic  tales  which  stirred  the  imagination  and  exercised  the 
invention  of  French  and  Norman  writers  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries.  The  variations  of  the  legend  and  the  additions  to  it  became 
almost  numberless,  yet,  strange  to  say,  it  was  nearly  a  hundred  years 
after  the  time  of  Layamon  before  it  again  found  its  way  into  an  English 
version.  But  this  tardiness  was  at  last  more  than  offset  by  the  merits 
of  the  Morte  Darthur,  written  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory  about  1470  and 
printed  some  fifteen  years  later,  —  one  of  the  hundred  works  which 
came  from  the  press  of  Caxton.  The  book  is  a  translation  of  various 
French  legends  of  the  Round  Table  and  a  combination  of  them  in  one 
"  prose-poem,"  couched  in  rich  and  melodious  English.  This  work  of 
Malory  is  important  because  it  preserved  to  the  English-speaking 
world  the  stories  of  Arthur  and  his  knights ;  it  is  also  the  finest  Eng- 
lish literary  production  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

Since  the  time  of  Malory  many  poets  have  made  use  of  the  Arthu- 
rian story,  chief  among  them  Tennyson,  —  in  his  splendid  Idylls  of 
the  King.  But  before  we  begin  the  study  of  the  Idylls,  we  shall 
turn  to  an  American  poet,  who,  like  Tennyson,  has  infused  into 
this  story  of  early  chivalry  a  moral  force  and  ethical  significance  which 
had  little  place  with  early  English  romance  or  early  Celtic  bard.  The 
characters  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King  are  set  "  in  a  rich  and  varied  land- 


354  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

scape."  The  action  is  large,  the  actors  many.  To  these  stirring 
poems  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  forms  both  a  contrast  and  a  supple- 
ment. Though  not  dealing  with  a  hero  of  the  Round  Table  or  with 
the  events  of  King  Arthur's  reign,  it  is  none  the  less  in  the  truest  and 
best  sense  a  poem  of  chivalry.  We  shall  therefore  say  something  con- 
cerning its  author,  America's  most  representative  man  of  letters, 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL   (1819-1891) 

Lowell,  like  Arnold,  was  not  only  poet  but  critic,  teacher,  and  man 
of  affairs.  Though  the  American  was  no  doubt  the  better  balanced,  the 
more  wholesome,  and  the  sunnier  of  the  two,  perhaps  the  more  gifted 
in  varied  capability,  the  parallel  between  them  is  nevertheless  striking 
and  suggestive.  Over  thirty  years  ago  and  during  the  lifetime  of 
both  poets,  Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  in  his  Poets  of  America, 
said :  "  Lowell  and  Arnold,  poets  nearly  equal  in  years,  both  scholars, 
both  original  thinkers,  occupy  representative  positions  —  the  one  in 
the  Old  England  and  the  other  in  the  New  —  which  are  singularly 
correspondent.  Two  things,  however,  are  to  be  noted.  The  Ameri- 
can has  the  freer  hand  and  wider  range  as  a  poet.  Humor,  dialect 
verse,  and  familiar  epistles  come  to  him  as  naturally  as  his  stateliest 
odes.  Again,  while  both  poets  feel  the  perplexities  of  the  time,  Arnold's 
difficulties  are  the  more  restrictive  of  his  poetic  glow ;  with  him  the 
impediments  are  spiritual.  With  Lowell  they  are  material,  and  to  be 
overcome.  Like  Mr.  Arnold,  Lowell  also  feels  the  questioning  spirit 
of  our  age  of  unrest ;  but  his  nature  is  too  various  and  healthy  to  be 
depressed  by  it.  The  cloud  rests  more  durably  on  Arnold.  Lowell 
always  has  one  refuge.  Give  him  a  touch  of  Mother  Earth,  a  breath 
of  free  air,  one  flash  of  sunshine,  and  he  is  no  longer  a  book  man  and 
a  brooder;  his  blood  runs  riot  with  the  spring;  this  inborn,  poetic 
elasticity  is  the  best  gift  of  the  gods.  Faith  and  joy  are  the  ascensive 
forces  of  song." 

This  parallel  is  noteworthy  partly  because  it  suggests  an  answer  to 
a  query  with  which  we  are  very  familiar,  "  How  do  the  best  poets  of 
our  country  compare  in  ability  and  achievement  with  the  greater  poets 
of  England  ?"  It  is  imquestionably  true  that  America  has  as  yet  pro- 
duced no  poetic  genius  who  can  rank  with  the  greatest  among  the 
masters  of  English  poetry  —  no  Chaucer  or  Spenser,  no  Shakespeare 
or  Milton,  no  Wordsworth  or  Tennyson.  But  it  is  no  less  true  that 
our  greater  American  poets  have  created  a  literature  which  is  distinc- 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  355 

tive  and  representative;  measured  by  the  very  best  of  the  second 
rank  of  English  poets,  their  position  is,  to  say  the  least,  an  honorable 
one.  Matthew  Arnold  was  a  very  distinguished  representative  of 
literary  England.  But  we  are  safe  in  saying  that  of  the  many  points 
of  likeness  between  Arnold  and  Lowell  there  are  few  in  which  the 
American  is  not  the  superior. 

As  to  his  American  contemporaries,  Lowell  outranks  them  chiefly  in 

the  quaUty  of  many-sidedness.     His  place  is  very  high  whether  he  be 

judged  as  scholar,  diplomat,  critic,  humorist,  writer  of  brilliant  and 

luminous  prose,  or  poet  thoroughly  representative  of  the  best  that 

i  American  culture  has  yet  produced.    But  most  of  all  he  was  a  splen- 

I  did  type  of  what  is  highest  and  noblest  in  American  citizenship. 

!        1819-1838.  —  James  Russell  Lowell  was  born  February  22,  1819, 

I  just  outside  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  about  a  mile  from  Harvard 

f  University.     His  father,  Charles  Lowell,  was  for  over  half  a  century 

i  a  Congregational  minister  in  the  West  Church  of  Boston.     Lowell 

I  was  born,  lived,  and  died  in  a  fine  old  country  mansion  called  Elm- 

!  wood,  whose  garden,  meadow,  spreading  trees,  and  lilac  hedges  had 

I  no  slight  influence  in  arousing  in  the  future  poet  a  passionate  love  of 

:  nature.     In  his  father's  library  was  an  excellent  collection  of  standard 

I  literature,  and  there  the  future  scholar  first  made  acquaintance  with 

;'  the  world  of  books.      At  the  age  of  fifteen  Lowell  entered  Har- 

j  vard  College,  then  an  institution  of  only  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 

students ;  after  an  imeventful  course  of  four  years  he  took  his  degree 

in  1838.     But  though  the  young  collegian  was  strikingly  indifferent 

to  the  prescribed  work  of  his  curriculum,  he  must  in  some  way  have 

given  evidence  of  the  stuff  of  which  he  was  made,  for  his  friend,  Dr. 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  says  of  him  thirty  years  later,  "  The  year 

Lowell  graduated  we  were  as  sure  as  we  are  now  that  in  him  was  first- 

I  rate  poetical  genius,  and  that  here  was  to  be  one  of  the  leaders  of 

I  the  literature  of  the  time." 

1838-1848.  —  After  his  graduation  Lowell  studied  law  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar.  Discovering,  however,  that  he  had  little  taste  for 
the  legal  profession,  he  soon  abandoned  it.  About  this  time,  1841, 
appeared  his  first  literary  venture  —  a  little  volume  of  poems  entitled 
A  Year's  Life.  A  second  volume,  which  followed  three  years  later, 
'  marks  a  distinct  advance  in  his  powers.  This  was  the  year  also  of  his 
marriage  to  Maria  White,  a  woman  of  noble  character,  who  exerted  no 
small  influence  over  the  young  poet's  early  work.  Four  years  later 
'  came  another  series  of  poems,  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  the  amusing 
Fable  for  Critics^  and  the  first  instalment  of  the  Bigloif  Papers,  which 


356  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

had  been  for  two  years  running  anonymously  in  the  Boston  Courier. 
This  clever  satire  was  a  half -indignant,  half -humorous  protest  against 
the  war  with  Mexico,  and  was  at  once  recognized  as  unique,  in  fact,  one 
of  the  most  original  poems  ever  written,  Lowell  was  now  thirty  years 
of  age,  and  had  at  last  caught  the  public  ear.  It  is  with  the  work  of 
1848  that  his  fame  as  a  poet  really  began. 

1848-1877.  —  During  1851  and  1852  Lowell  spent  a  year  and  a 
half  in  Europe  with  his  wife,  whose  health  was  failing  and  who  died  the 
next  year.  In  1855  the' poet  was  appointed  to  the  professorship  in 
Harvard  College  of  Belles-Lettres  and  Modern  Language  and  Litera- 
ture, a  position  which  Longfellow  had  just  vacated.  After  another 
visit  to  Europe  to  fit  himself  more  fully  for  his  new  duties,  Lowell 
settled  down  in  1856  to  nearly  twenty  years  of  work  as  a  Harvard 
professor.  At  the  same  time  that  he  was  carrying  on  his  college 
coiu-ses,  he  was  also  occupying  the  post  of  editor  —  first  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  then  of  the  North  American  Review.  To  the  latter  were 
contributed  many  of  his  prose  essays,  most  of  them  on  literature  and 
literary  men.  From  1862  to  1866  events  connected  with  the  Civil 
War  called  forth  a  second  series  of  the  Biglow  Papers,  grimmer  in 
humor  and  more  intense  in  feeUng  than  his  Biglow  Papers  of  eighteen 
years  before.  In  1865  the  poet  recited  at  Harvard  College  the  noble 
Commemoration  Ode,  not  only  one  of  his  finest  poems,  but  also  one 
of  the  finest  odes  ever  written.  Other  volumes  of  prose  and  poetry 
appeared  during  the  next  dozen  years.  At  the  end  of  this  period 
Lowell  gave  up  his  work  as  editor  and  teacher  and  entered  upon  his 
career  as  public  servant. 

1877-1891.  —  From  1877  to  1880  the  poet  served  as  United  States 
Minister  to  Spain,  and  from  1880  to  1885  as  Minister  to  England.  By 
his  lively  intelligence  and  ready  tact,  his  fairness  and  breadth  of  mind, 
he  gained  extreme  popularity  in  both  countries.  His  ripe  scholarship 
and  social  talents  commended  him  especially  to  Englishmen;  no 
American  ambassador  to  the  court  of  St.  James  has  ever  been  more 
welcome.  Mr.  Lowell's  second  wife,  whom  he  had  married  in  1857, 
died  in  England  in  1885.  This  same  year  a  change  in  political  admin- 
istration caused  him  to  resign  his  post  and  return  to  the  United  States. 
The  remaining  years  of  the  poet's  life  were  spent  in  lecturing  and  writ- 
ing, and  in  revising  and  republishing  his  works.  His  health,  which 
had  hitherto  been  robust,  began  to  fail ;  but  in  spite  of  occasional 
periods  of  intense  suffering  he  never  lost  that  geniality  which  so  en- 
deared him  to  his  friends.  We  have  compared  Lowell  to  Matthew 
Arnold  and,  indeed,  they  were  alike  in  many  ways.    But  as  a  vivid 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  357 

contrast  to  Arnold's  philosophy  of  doubt  we  may  quote  a  few  words 
which  Lowell  wrote  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  not  long  before  his  death : 
"  I  don't  care  where  the  notion  of  immortality  came  from.  It  is  there, 
and  I  mean  to  hold  it  fast.  There  is  something  in  the  flesh  that  is 
superior  to  the  flesh,  something  that  can  in  finer  moments  abolish 
matter  and  pain .  And  it  is  to  this  we  must  cling. ' '  He  died  in  August , 
1891. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  written  when  Lowell  was  only  twenty- 
nine  years  of  age,  is  considered  by  many  to  stand  at  the  high-water 
mark  of  American  poetry.  It  is  a  poem  especially  worthy  of  our  study, 
since  it  .admirably  reveals  the  genius  of  its  author  both  as  poet  of  na- 
ture and  as  poet  of  the  philosophy  of  life. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 

PRELUDE   TO   PART   FIRST 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay : 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 

Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie ;  10 

Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 

We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies  :  is 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives ; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite ; 


3S8  LOWELL 

And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea.  20 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in. 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in ; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold,  25 

Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay. 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking :  • 

'Tis  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ;  30 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer ; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  da/s ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune,  35 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 
An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, .  40 

And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green,  45 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves,  50 

And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings. 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings : 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  359 

He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and^he  to  her  nest,  —  55 

In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  Hfe  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ;  60 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well  65 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear. 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near,  70 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing. 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back. 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ;  75 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  lieifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 
•  Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how;  80 

Everything  is  happy  now. 

Everything  is  upward  striving ; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

'Tis  the  natural  way  of  living :  85 

Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed. 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  of  the  season's  youth,  90 


360  LOWELL 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ?  .  9S 

PART  FIRST 


"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread,  100 

Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head. 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew."  los 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him. 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

n 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 

In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees,  no 

The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 

The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees : 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray :  ns 

'Twas  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree ; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 

But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied;  120 

She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall,  '^ 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  361 

Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 

Stretched  left  and  right, 

Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight ; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent,  125 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

in 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 

And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 

Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight,  130 

In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 

It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 

Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf,  13s 

Had  cast  them  forth :  so,  young  and  strong. 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf. 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  unscarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 


IV 


140 


It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree. 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 

Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free. 
And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 

The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up  145 

Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 


As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate, 
He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 

Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate ; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came ;  150 

The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 
The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink  and  crawl, 


362  LOWELL 

And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature,  iss 

Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,  — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 

"  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust,  160 

Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 

Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 

That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 

He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty ;  165 

But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,  -— 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms,  170 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 

PRELUDE   TO   PART   SECOND 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old ;  17s 

On  open  wold  and  hill- top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold. 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek ; 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 

From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare ;  180 

The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof ; 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams ; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars  185 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  XAUNFAL  363 

As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars ; 

He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt,  190 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze ; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew ; 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief  195 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf ; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond-drops,  200 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one : 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice ; 

'Twas  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay  205 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky. 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost. 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost.  210 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter. 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly ; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide  215 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind ;  220 

And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 


364  .    LOWELL 

Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 
Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp,  225 

Of  Sir  LaunfaFs  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 

A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own,  230 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was  —  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless  !  " 

The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night  235 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

PART   SECOND 


There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree,  240 

The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun ;        245 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old. 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 


II 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate,  250 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate ; 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  365 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross,  255 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore. 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

in 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air. 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time ;  260 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small,  265 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one. 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  Httle  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade,  270 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played. 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV 

"  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms ;  "  — 

The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring. 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome  thing,  275 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone. 

That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 

And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 

In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

V 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,  —  "I  behold  in  thee  '   280 

An  image  of  him  who  died  on  the  tree ; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns,  — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns,  — 


366  LOWELL 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side :  285 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me ; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  Thee  !  " 

VI 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise  290 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust,      *  295 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink : 
'Twas  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'Twas  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed,  300 

And  'twas  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

vn 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  Hght  shone  round  about  the  place ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified,  30s 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate,  — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

vin 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the  pine,   310 
And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon ; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said,     ^ 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR   LAUNFAL  367 

"  Lo  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  I  31s 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 

Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 

Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  Me  but  now ; 

This  crust  is  My  body  broken  for  thee,  320 

This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed. 

In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need : 

Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share,  — 

For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare ;  32s 

"Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three,  — 

Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  Me." 

IX 

> 
Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound :  — 
"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall,  330 

Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

X 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall  335 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough ; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall. 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er ; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door. 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise,  340 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise ; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round  • 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command ;  34s 

And  there's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


368  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


TENNYSON'S   IDYLLS   OF  THE   KING 

In  Professor  Maccallum's  valuable  book  on  Tennyson's  Idylls  of 
the  King  and  Arthurian  Story  we  read :  "  In  the  Idylls  is  probably  to 
be  found  the  finest  development  that  the  cycle  of  Arthurian  story  has 
yet  attained,  or  will  for  long  attain.  Perhaps  it  might  even  be  said 
that  they  deliver  the  classic  version  of  that  story  as  a  whole,  and 
present  it  in  the  highest  perfection  of  which  it  is  capable.  It  may  be 
maintained  that  its  peculiar  merits  and  defects  correspond  so  closely 
with  the  inherent  limitations  and  excellencies  of  Tennyson's  genius 
that  in  him  it  found  its  unique  predestined  interpreter." 

Though  Tennyson  goes  directly  to  Malory  for  his  story,  he  exer- 
cises throughout  the  Idylls  an  artist's  privilege  of  departing  from  the 
original  whenever  such  departure  seems  to  be  to  the  advantage  of  his 
poem.  The  subject  of  the  legend  appealed  to  the  poet  largely  on 
,  account  of  the  moral  significance  which  he  found  in  it  or  could  add 
to  it.  Not  that  it  is  at  all  necessary  or  wise  to  regard  the  whole  poem 
as  an  allegory,  as  some  critics  have  tried  to  do,  with  each  separate 
character  or  incident  standing  as  the  symbol  of  some  abstract  truth. 
Such  a  view  of  the  Idylls  would  detract  greatly  from  their  simple  epic 
interest.  Still,  in  a  general  way,  no  doubt  the  motif  underlying  them, 
as  Tennyson  himseK  has  said,  is  to  depict  "  Sense  at  war  with  Soul." 
The  guilty  love  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  stands  out  as  the  main 
thread  of  the  plot.  In  every  one  of  the  Idylls  the  blighting  influence 
of  their  sin  is  felt.  The  conflict  between  evil  and  good  is  everywhere 
prominent.  But  though  the  Round  Table  is  at  last  dissolved,  the 
spiritual  nobility  of  the  king  towers  above  the  littleness  and  evil  that 
surroimd  him.  We  feel  with  Dr.  van  Dyke,  "  His  life  is  not  a  failure, 
but  a  glorious  success ;  for  it  demonstrates  the  freedom  of  the  will  and 
the  strength  of  the  soul  against  the  powers  of  evil  and  the  fate  of  sin." 

Tennyson's  interest  in  the  Arthurian  legend  is  seen  as  early  as  1832, 
when  in  The  Lady  of  Shalott  he  developed  the  beautiful  and  pathetic 
theme  afterward  enlarged  and  modified  into  Lancelot  and  Elaine.  Ten 
years  later  the  Morte  d' Arthur  was  published  —  a  poem  which  later 
still,  in  unchanged  form,  appeared  as  the  main  portion  of  the  Passing 
of  Arthur,  the  last  of  the  idylls.  But  the  plan  of  the  whole  series  was 
evidently  not  yet  conceived ;  it  was  not  till  1859  that  the  four  idylls 
were  published  which  formed  the  first  instalment.  In  1869  four  more 
were  published ;  afterward,  at  scattered  intervals,  still  others,  the  last 
not  appearing  till  1885  —  more  than  half  a  century  after  The  Lady  of 
Shalott. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  369 

A  criticism  of  this  group  of  poems  is  hardly  needed.  It  easily 
ranks  as  one  of  the  most  charming  series  in  English  poetry.  The  ex- 
quisite character  sketches,  the  lively  human  interest,  the  dramatic 
sequence  of  events,  the  heroic  atmosphere,  the  delicate  carved  work 
peculiar  to  the  poet's  fancy,  the  splendid  blank  verse,  —  all  contribute, 
with  many  other  features  of  excellence,  to  establish  for  the  series  a 
position  of  surpassing  distinction.  The  following  is  a  full  list  of  the 
idylls  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  finally  arranged,  together  with 
the  date  of  each : 

I.  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  1869. 

II.  The  Round  Table:  (i)  Gareth  and  Lynette,  1873;  (2)  The 
Marriage  of  Geraint,  1859 ;  (3)  Geraint  and  Enid,  1859  ((2)  and  (3) 
were  originally  combined  as  Enid) ;  (4)  Balin  and  Balan,  1885 ;  (5) 
Merlin  and  Vivien,  1859  (first  called  Vivien) ;  (6)  Lancelot  and  Elaine, 
1859  (first  called  Elaine) ;  (7)  The  Holy  Grail,  1869 ;  (8)  Pelleas  and 
Ettarre,  1869;  (9)   The  Last  Tournament,  187 1 ;  (10)  Guinevere,  1859. 

III.  The  Passing  of  Arthur,  1869  (mostly  made  up  of  Morte 
d' Arthur,  1842). 

The  Epic,  as  finally  completed,  also  included  a  Dedication  to  Prince 
Albert  and  an  Epilogue  to  the  Queen.  The  student  will  hardly  find 
poetry  more  interesting  —  nay,  fascinating  —  than  that  presented  in 
these  twelve  idylls.  In  this  book  we  are  forced  to  confine  ourselves  to 
two,  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  the  sixth  of  the  "  Round  Table,"  and  The 
Passing  of  Arthur,  the  last  of  the  series.  All  twelve  may  be  found, 
however,  in  editions  of  Tennyson's  poems ;  and  the  student  will  find 
that  at  least  the  Gareth  and  Lynette,  the  Marriage  of  Geraint,  the  Geraint 
and  Enid,  The  Last  Tournament,  and  Guinevere  will  equal  in  interest 
either  of  the  two  here  given. 

LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east 

Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 

Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's  earliest  ray         s 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the  gleam ; 

Then,  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashioned  for  it 

A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 

All  the  devices  blazoned  on  the  shield 

2  B 


370  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  her  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day, 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father,  climbed 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barred  her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield. 
Now  guessed  a  hidden  meaning  in  his  arms. 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon  it. 
Conjecturing  when  and  where :  this  cut  is  fresh ; 
That  ten  years  back ;  this  dealt  him  at  Caerlyle ; 
That  at  Caerleon ;  this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah,  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was  there  ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  killed,  but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  rolled  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  him :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  hly  maid  by  that  good  shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his  name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond  jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordained,  and  by  that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was  the  prize. 

For  Arthur,  long  before  they  crowned  him  king. 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonnesse, 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black  tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain  side : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had  met 
And  fought  together ;  but  their  names  were  lost ; 
And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow ; 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen  abhorred : 
And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones  were  bleached. 
And  lichened  into  color  with  the  crags : 
And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a  crown 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  371 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front  and  four  aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the  pass^ 

All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 

Had  trodden  that  crowned  skeleton,  and  the  skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull  the  crown  50 

Rolled  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 

Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn : 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged,  and  caught, 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 

Heard  murmurs,  ''  Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt  be  king."  ss 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the  gems 
Plucked  from  the  crown,  and  showed  them  to  his  knights, 
Saying :  "  These  jewels,  whereupon  I  chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's,  not  the  King's  — 
For  public  use :  henceforward  let  there  be,  60 

Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must  learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves  shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule  the  land  65 

Hereafter,  which  God  hinder  !  "     Thus  he  spoke  :• 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had  been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the  year, 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the  Queen 
When  all  were  won ;  but,  meaning  all  at  once  70 

To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  haK  her  realm,  had  never  spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which  now  is 

Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  —  for  she  had  been  sick  —  to  Guinevere : 
"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot  move 
To  these  fair  jousts  ?  "    "  Yea,  lord,"  she  said,  "ye  know  it."    80 
"  Then  will  ye  miss,"  he  answered,  "  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 


372  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

A  sight  ye  love  to  look  on."     And  the  Queen 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 

On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the  King.  8s 

He,  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning  there, 

"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick ;  my  love  is  more 

Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded ;  and  a  heart 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen  — 

However  much  he  yearned  to  make  complete  go 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon  — 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth,  and  say, 

''  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly  whole, 

And  lets  me  from  the  saddle ;  "  and  the  King 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went  his  way.  95 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began : 


"  To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot,  much  to  blame  ! 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ?  the  knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the  crowd 
Will  murmur,  '  Lo,  the  shameless  ones,  who  take  100 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  King  is  gone  ! '  " 
Then  Lancelot,  vext  at  having  lied  in  vain : 
"  Are  ye  so  wise  ?  ye  were  not  once  so  wise. 
My  Queen,  that  summer  when  ye  loved  me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more  account  105 

Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead,  | 

When  its  own  voice  cHngs  to  each  blade  of  grass, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.     As  to  knights. 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allowed  no 

Of  all  men :  many  a  bard,  without  offence,  | 

Has  Hnked  our  names  together  in  his  lay,  ' 

Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guinevere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty ;  and  our  knights  at  feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the  King  115 

Would  listen  smiling.     How  then  ?  is  there  more  ? 
Has  Arthur  spoken  aught  ?  or  would  yourself. 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir. 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless  lord  ?  " 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  373 

She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh :       *  120 

''  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless  King, 
That  passionate  perfection,  my  good  lord  — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  sun  in  heaven? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me. 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth,  125 

He  cares  not  for  me :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleamed  a  vague  suspicion  in  his  eyes : 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tampered  with  him  —  else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible,  130 

To  make  them  like  himself ;  but,  friend,  to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all : 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of  earth ; 
The  low  sun  makes  the  color :  I  am  yours. 
Nor  Arthur's,  as  ye  know,  save  by  the  bond.  135 

And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to  the  jousts : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our  dream 
When  sweetest ;  and  the  vermin  voices  here 
May  buzz  so  loud  —  we  scorn  them,  but  they  sting." 

Then  answered  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights :  140 

"  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext  made, 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own  word 
As  if  it  were  his  God's  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
"  A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule,  14S 

Else  had  he  not  lost  me :  but  listen  to  me, 
If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ;  your  great  name. 
This  conquers :  hide  it  therefore ;  go  unknown :  150 

Win  !  by  this  kiss  you  will :  and  our  true  King 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O  my  knight, 
As  all  for  glory ;  .for  to  speak  him  true. 
Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe'er  he  seem, 


374  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes.  155 

He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  himseU ; 
They  prove  to  him  his  work :  win  and  return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse, 
Wroth  at  hunself .     Not  willing  to  be  known, 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare,  160 

Chose  the  green  path  that  showed  the  rarer  foot. 
And  there  among  the  soHtary  downs. 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way ; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadowed  track, 
That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the  dales  165 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the  towers. 
Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gateway  horn. 
Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man, 
Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarmed.  170 

And  Lancelot  marvelled  at  the  wordless  man ; 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and  Sir  Lavaine, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court ; 
And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid  175 

Elaine,  his  daughter :  mother  of  the  house 
There  was  not.     Some  light  jest  among  them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great  knight 
Approached  them ;  then  the  Lord  of  Astolat : 
"  Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by  what  name      180 
Livest  between  the  hps  ?  for  by  thy  state 
And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of  those. 
After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 
Him  have  I  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table  Round, 
Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  unknown."  185 

Then  answered  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights : 
"  Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and  known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not ;  190 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  375 

Hereafter  ye  shall  know  me  —  and  the  shield  — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have, 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not  mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat :  "  Here  is  Torre's : 
Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre ;  195 

And  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank  enough. 
His  ye  can  have."     Then  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 
"  Yea,  since  I  cannot  use' it,  ye  may  have  it." 
Here  laughed  the  father  saying :  "  Fie,  Sir  Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight  ?  200 

Allow  him  !  but  Lavaine,  my  younger  here. 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride. 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an  hour, 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair. 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before."  205 

"  Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame  me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young  Lavaine, 
''  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  played  on  Torre : 
He  seemed  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not  go : 
A  jest,  no  more  !  for,  knight,  the  maiden  dreamt  210 

That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand. 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or  stream, 
The  castle-well,  belike ;  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went,  and  if  I  fought  and  won  it  —  21s 

But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves  — 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was  jest. 
But,  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight : 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win ;  220 

Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best." 

"  So  ye  will  grace  me,"  answered  Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost  myself. 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend :  225 


376  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

And  you  shall  win  this  diamond,  —  as  I  hear, 

It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,  —  if  ye  may. 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will." 

"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 

"  Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  simple  maids."  230 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about. 

Flushed  slightly  at  the  slight  disparagement 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking  at  her, 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  returned :  235 

"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair. 

And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 

Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem  this  maid 

Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth. 

Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like."  ^0 

He  spoke  and  ceased :  the  lily  maid  Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  looked. 
Lifted  her  eyes  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 
Had  marred  his  face,  and  marked  it  ere  his  time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the  world, 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it ;  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose  251 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marred  as  he  was,  he  seemed  the  goodliest  man 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes.  2sj 

However  marred,  of  more  than  twice  her  years. 
Seamed  with  an  ancient  sword-cut  on  the  cheek, 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of  the  court,        2^ 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 
Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half  disdain 


24s 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  377 

Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 

But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind : 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of  their  best  .    265 

And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertained. 

And  much  they  asked  of  court  and  Table  Round, 

And  ever  well  and  readily  answered  he ; 

But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at  Guinevere, 

Sifddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man,  t/z 

Heard  from  the  baron  that,  ten  years  before. 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his  tongue. 

"  He  learnt  and  warned  me  of  their  fierce  design 

Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught  and  maimed ; 

But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter  fled  275 

From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among  the  woods 

By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 

Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur  broke 

The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

"  O  there,  great  lord,  doubtless,"  Lavaine  said,  rapt    280 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of  youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  ''  you  have  fought. 
O  tell  us  —  for  we  live  apart  —  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."     And  Lancelot  spoke 
And  answered  him  at  full,  as  having  been  28s 

With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent  Glem ; 
And  in  the  four  loud  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas ;  that  on  Bassa ;  then  the  war 
That  thundered  in  and  out  the  gloomy  skirts  290 

Of  Celidon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  Castle  Gurnion,  where  the  glorious  King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald  centered  in  a  sun 
Of  silver  rays,  that  lightened  as  he  breathed.;  295 

And  at  Caerleon  had  he  helped  his  lord, 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild  white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering ; 
And  up  in  Agned-Cathregonion  too, 


37S  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath  Treroit,         300 

Where  many  a  heathen  fell ;  "  and  on  the  mount 

Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 

Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 

And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 

And  break  them ;  and  I  saw  him,  after,  stand  305 

High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 

Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood,  • 

And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he  cried, 

'  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken  !  '  for  the  King, 

However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares  310 

For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the  jousts  — 

For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he  laughs, 

Saying  his  knights  are  better  men  than  he  — 

Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 

Fills  him :  I  never  saw  his  like ;  there  lives  31s 

No  greater  leader." 


While  he  uttered  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
"  Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord ;  "  and  when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry  — • 
Being  mirthful  he,  but  in  a  stately  kind  —  320 

She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living  smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again. 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him  cheer,  325 

There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature :  and  she  thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived. 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face,  330 

Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life. 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  her  lived,  33s 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  379 

Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence,  full 

Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her  sleep, 

Till  rathe  she  rose,  half -cheated  in  the  thought 

She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet  Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole  340 

Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating : 

Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the  court, 

"  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  ?  "  and  Lavaine 

Passed  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the  tower. 

There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  turned,  and  smoothed  345 

The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 

Half -envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she  drew 

Nearer  and  stood.     He  looked,  and,  more  amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light.  350 

He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beautiful. 

Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear. 

For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 

Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 

Suddenly  flashed  on  her  a  wild  desire  35s 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt. 

She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 

"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not  —  noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest  —  will  you  wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney?  "     "  Nay,"  said  he,  360 

"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those  who  know  me,  know." 

"  Yea,  so,"  she  answered ;  "  then  in  wearing  mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord,  365 

That  those  who  know  should  know  you."     And  he  turned 

Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind, 

And  found  it  true,  and  answered :  "  True,  my  child. 

Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me : 

What  is  it  ?  "  and  she  told  him,  "  A  red  sleeve  370 

Broidered  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it :  then  he  bound 

Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 

Saying,  "  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 


1 


380  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 

Sprang  to  her  face  and  filled  her  with  delight ;  375 

But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 

Returning  brought  the  yet-unblazoned  shield, 

His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 

Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine : 

"  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my  shield  380 

In  keeping  till  I  come."     "  A  grace  to  me," 

She  answered,  "  twice  to-day.     I  am  your  squire  !  " 

Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing :  "  Lily  maid, 

For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 

In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back ;  385 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice :  now  get  you  hence  to  bed :  " 

So  kissed  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own  hand. 

And  thus  they  moved  away :  she  stayed  a  minute. 

Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and  there  — ■ 

Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious  face  390 

Yet  rosy  kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss  — • 

Paused  by  the  gateway,  standing  near  the  shield 

In  silence,  while  she  watched  their  arms  far-off 

Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 

Then  to  her  tower  she  climbed,  and  took  the  shield,       39s 

There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  passed  away 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs, 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a  knight 
Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years  400 

A  hermit,  who  had  prayed,  labored  and  prayed, 
And  ever  laboring  had  scooped  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shore-cliff  cave, 
And  cells  and  chambers :  all  were  fair  and  dry ;  40s' 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  underneath 
Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs ; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling  showers. 
And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they  bode.  410 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  381 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  underground, 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the  cave, 
They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and  rode  away. 
Then  Lancelot  saying",  "Hear,  but  hold  my  name 
Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the  Lake,"  415 

Abashed  Lavaine,  whose  instant  reverence. 
Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their  own  praise. 
But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "  Is  it  indeed  ?  " 
And  after  muttering,  "  The  great  Lancelot," 
At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answered :  "  One,  420 

One  have  I  seen  —  that  other,  our  liege  lord, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  King  of  kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously. 
He  will  be  there  —  then  were  I  stricken  blind 
That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen."  425 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they  reached  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half  round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass, 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King,  who  sat  430 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon  clung. 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed  in  gold. 
And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him  crept 
Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to  make  43s 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them 
Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumerable 
Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they  found 
The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  themselves, 
Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work :  -440 

And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set. 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless  king. 

Then  Lancelot  answered  young  Lavaine  and  said  : 
"  Me  you  call  great :  mine  is  the  firmer  seat, 
The  truer  lance :  but  there  is  many  a  youth  445 

Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I  am 


382  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

And  overcome  it ;  and  in  me  there  dwells 

No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch  i 

Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great : 

There  is  the  man."     And  Lavaine  gaped  upon  him  450 

As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 

The  trumpets  blew ;  and  then  did  either  side. 

They  that  assailed,  and  they  that  held  the  lists, 

Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly  move. 

Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously  4Si 

Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well  perceive, 

If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 

The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder  of  arms. 

And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 

Which  were  the  weaker ;  then  he  hurled  into  it  46c 

Against  the  stronger :  little  need  to  speak 

Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  !     King,  duke,  earl, 

Count,  baron  —  whom  he  smote,  he  overthrew.  .i 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists,  46! 

Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger  knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot;  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "  Lo  ! 
What  is  he  ?     I  do  not  mean  the  force  alone. 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  —  47c 

Is  it  not  Lancelot  ?  "     "  When  has  Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we  that  know  him,  know." 
"  How  then  ?  who  then  ?  "  a  fury  seized  them  all, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name  47^ 

Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couched  their  spears  and  pricked  their  steeds,  and  thus. 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down- upon  him 

Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North  Sea,  48Q 

Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark,  0 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  383 

And  him  that  helms  it ;  so  they  overbore 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear  485 

Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a  spear 

Pricked  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the  head 

Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt  and  remained. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  worshipf ully : 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the  earth,  490 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where  he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got. 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  endure. 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 

His  party,  — ■  tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle  49S 

To  those  he  fought  with,  —  drave  his  kith  and  kin. 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Back  to  the  barrier ;  then  the  trumpets  blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize  who  wore  the  sleeve 
Of  scarlet  and  the  pearls ;  and  all  the  knights,  500 

His  party,  cried,  ''  Advance  and  take  thy  prize 
The  diamond;  "  but  he  answered :  "  Diamond  me 
No  diamonds  !  for  God's  love,  a  little  air  ! 
Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death  ! 
Hence  will  I,  and  I  charge  you,  follow  me  not."  505 

He  spoke,  and  vanished  suddenly  from  the  field 
With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and  sat, 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  ''  Draw  the  lance-head." 
"  Ah,  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said  Lavaine,  510 

*'  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
But  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it :  draw  — • 
Draw,"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  Sir  Lancelot  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly  groan. 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down  he  sank  51s 

For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swooned  away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in. 
There  stanched  his  wound ;  and  there,  in  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 


384,  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the  grove  520 

Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling  showers, 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the  lists, 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and  West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate  isles,  525 

Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  saying  to  him, 
"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight,  thro'  whom  we  won  the  day. 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left  his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 
"  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that  such  an  one,      530 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day  — 
He  seemed  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lancelot  — 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.     Wherefore  rise, 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  fii^d  the  knight.  S3S 
Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he  be  near. 

1  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 

And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes  not  one  of  you 

Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly  given : 

His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We  will  do  him  540 

No  customary  honor :  since  the  knight 

Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize. 

Ourselves  will  send  it  after.     Rise  and  take 

This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 

And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he  fares,  545 

And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until  ye  find." 

So  saying,  from  the  carven  flower  above, 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took 
And  gave  the  diamond :  then  from  where  he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  face  arose,  55° 

With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a  prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair  and  strong, 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
And  Gareth,  a  good  knight,  but  therewithal  j        555 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  385 

Sir  Modred's  brother,  and  the  child  of  Lot, 

Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 

Wroth  that  the  King's  command  to  sally  forth 

In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him  leave 

The  banquet  and  concourse  of  knights  and  kings.  560 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and  went ; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in  mood, 
Passed,  thinking,  "  Is  it  Lancelot  who  hath  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  hath  added  wound  to  wound,  565 

And  ridd'n  away  to  die  ?  "     So  feared  the  King, 
And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there,  returned. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing  asked, 
''  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ?  "     "  Nay,  lord,"  she  said. 
"  And  where  is  Lancelot  ?  "     Then  the  Queen  amazed,    570 
"  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not  your  prize  ?  " 
"  Nay,  but  one  like  hun."     ''  Why,  that  like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she  knew. 
Said :  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted  from  us. 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk  sis 

That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at  a  touch. 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot ;  his  great  name 
Conquered ;  and  therefore  would  he  hide  his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  the  King,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering  wound,  580 

That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and  learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decayed ; 
And  added,  *  Our  true  Arthur,  when  he  learns. 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.'  " 

Then  replied  the  King :  585 

*'  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been, 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  hath  trusted  thee. 
Surely  his  King  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True,  indeed,  590 

2c 


386  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 

So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 

Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter :  now  remains 

But  little  cause  for  laughter :  his  own  kin  — 

111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him,  this !  —  595 

His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon  him ; 

So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the  field : 

Yet  good  news  too ;  for  goodly  hopes  are  mine 

That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 

He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm  600 

A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great  pearls, 

Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"  Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
''  Thy  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that,  she  choked, 
And  sharply  turned  about  to  hide  her  face, 
Passed  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung  herself  60s 

Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and  writhed  upon  it, 
And  clenched  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the  palm. 
And  shrieked  out  "  Traitor  !  "  to  the  unhearing  wall. 
Then  flashed  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and  pale.  610 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region  round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the  quest, 
Touched  at  all  points  except  the  poplar  grove. 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom  glittering  in  enamelled  arms  the  maid  615 

Glanced  at,  and  cried,  "  What  news  from  Camelot,  lord  ? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve  ?  "     ''He  won." 
"  I  knew  it,"  she  said.     "  But  parted  from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side ;  "  whereat  she  caught  her  breath ; 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance  go ;  620 

Thereon  she  smote  her  hand ;  wellnigh  she  swooned : 
And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  came 
The  Lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the  prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not  find  625 

The  victor,  but  had  ridd'n  a  random  round 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  387 

To  seek  him,  and  had  wearied  of  the  search. 

To  whom  the  Lord  of  Astolat :  "  Bide  with  us, 

And  ride  no  more  at  random,  noble  prince  ! 

Here  was  the  knight  and  here  he  left  a  shield ;  630 

This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  furthermore, 

Our  son  is  with  him ;  we  shall  hear  anon. 

Needs  must  we  hear."     To  this  the  courteous  prince 

Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 

Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it,  635 

And  stayed ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair  Elaine : 

Where  could  be  found  face  daintier  ?  then  her  shape 

From  forehead  down  to  foot,  perfect  —  again 

From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turned : 

''  Well  —  if  I  bide,  lo  !  this  wild  flower  for  me  !  "  640 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews. 

And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 

With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a  height 

Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs. 

Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  eloquence  64s 

And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 

Rebelled  against  it,  saying  to  him  :  ''  Prince, 

O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 

Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left, 

Whence  you  might  learn  his  name  ?    Why  slight  your  King,    650 

And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and  prove 

No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday. 

Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  her  at,  and  went 

To  all  the  winds  ?  "     ''  Nay,  by  mine  head,"  said  he, 

"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven,  655 

O  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes ; 

But,  an  ye  will  it,  let  me  see  the  shield." 

And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and  Gawain  saw 

Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crowned  with  gold, 

Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh,  and  mocked :  660 

"  Right  was  the  King  !  our  Lancelot !  that  true  man  !  " 

"  And  right  was  I,"  she  answered  merrily,  "I, 

Who  dreamed  my  knight  the  greatest  knight  of  all." 

"  And  if  /  dreamed,"  said  Gawain,  "  that  you  love 


388  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  !  lo,  ye  know  it !        665 
Speak  therefore :  shall  I  waste  myself  in  vain  ?  " 
Full  simple  was  her  answer :  "  What  know  I  ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship ; 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talked  of  love, 
Wished  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they  talked,  670 

Meseemed,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so  myself  — 
I  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
I  know  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 
"  Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "  ye  love  him  well,      675 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all  others  know, 
And  whom  he  loves."     "  So  be  it,"  cried  Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away : 
But  he  pursued  her,  calling,  "  Stay  a  Httle  ! 
One  golden  minute's  grace  !  he  wore  your  sleeve :  680 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not  name  ? 
Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at  last  ? 
Nay  —  like  enow :  why  then,  far  be  it  from  me 
To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  loves  ! 
And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well  685 

Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let  me  leave 
My  quest  with  you ;  the  diamond  also :  here  ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it ; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 
From  your  own  hand ;  and  whether  he  love  or  not,         690 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you  well 
A  thousand  times  !  —  a  thousand  times  farewell ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
■'  May  meet  at  court  hereafter :  there,  I  think, 
So  ye  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the  court,  695 

We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kissed  the  hand  to  which  he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the  quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he  went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away.  700 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  389 

Thence  to  the  court  he  passed ;  there  told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "  Sir  Lancelot  is  the  knight." 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I  learnt ; 
But  failed  to  find  him,  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
The  region :  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid  70s 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore ;  she  loves  him ;  and  to  her, 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law,  , 

I  gave  the  diamond :  she  will  render  it ; 
For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding-place." 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frowned,  and  replied,  710 

"  Too  courteous  truly  !  ye  shall  go  no  more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.     Wroth,  but  all  in  awe, 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without  a  word,  715 

Lingered  that  other,  staring  after  him ; 
Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and  buzzed  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  pricked  at  once,  all  tongues  were  loosed : 
"  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot,  720 

Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the  Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but  most 
Predoomed  her  as  unworthy.     One  old  dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the  sharp  news.  725 

She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before, 
But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have  stooped  so  low, 
Marred  her  friend's  aim  with  pale  tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine-days'  wonder  flared :  730 

Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the  Queen, 
And,  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid. 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen,  who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid,  felt  the  knot  735 


39©  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet  unseen 
Crushed  the  wild  passion  out  against  the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats  became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who  pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat,  740 

•      Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 

The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her  heart, 

Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 

Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and  said : 

"  Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault  745 

Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 

Sweet  father,  w411  you  let  me  lose  my  wits?*" 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  surely."     "  Wherefore,  let  me  hence," 

She  answered,  "  and  find  out  our  dear  Lavaine." 

'*  Ye  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  Lavaine :  750 

Bide,"  answered  he :  "we  needs  must  hear  anon 

Of  him,  and  of  that  other."     "  Ay,"  she  said, 

"  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must  hence 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be. 

And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond  to  him,  755 

Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 

As  yon  proud  prince  who  left  the  quest  to  me. 

Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 

Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's  aid.  760 

The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more  bound, 

My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 

To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye  know, 

When  these  have  worn  their  tokens :  let  me  hence, 

I  pray  you."     Then  her  father  nodding  said :  765 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond :  wit  ye  well,  my  child. 

Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight  were  whole. 

Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  you  must  give  it  — 

And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 

For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  queen's  —  770 

Nay,  I  mean  nothing :  so  then,  get  you  gone. 

Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  39I 

Lightly,  her  suit  allowed,  she  slipt  away, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride, 
Her  father's  latest  word  hummed  in  her  ear,  775 

"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her  heart, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it  off. 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us ;  780 

And  in  her  heart  she  answered  it  and  said, 
"  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to  life  ?  " 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for  guide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates  785 

Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 
Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers ; 
Whom  when  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she  cried,  "  Lavaine, 
How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ?  "     He  amazed,  7go 

"  Torre  and  Elaine  !  why  here  ?     Sir  Lancelot ! 
How  know  ye  my  lord's  name  is  Lancelot  ?  " 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her  tale. 
Then  turned  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his  moods 
Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued  gate,  795 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  rendered  mystically, 
Passed  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin, 
His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Camelot ; 
And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 
Led  to  the  caves  :  there  first  she  saw  the  casque  800 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet  sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls  away. 
Streamed  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart  she  laughed. 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm, 
But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tourney  in  it.  805 

And  when  they  gained  the  cell  wherein  he  slept, 
His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 
Lay  naked  on  the  wolf-skin,  and  a  dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them  move. 
Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek,  unshorn,  8io 


392  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Uttered  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  rolled  his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him,  saying,  815 

"  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the  King." 
His  eyes  glistened :  she  fancied,  ''  Is  it  for  me  ?  " 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the  tale 
Of  king  and  prince,  the  diamond  sent,  the  quest 
Assigned  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt  820 

Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed. 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  child 
That  does  the  task  assigned,  he  kissed  her  face. 
'  At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor.  825 

"  Alas,"  he  said,  ''  your  ride  hath  wearied  youc 
Rest  must  you  have."     "  No  rest  for  me."  she  said : 
^'  Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  rest." 
What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?  his  large  black  eyes, 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon  her,  830 

Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face ; 
And  Lancelot  looked  and  was  perplext  in  mind, 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more, 
But  did  not  love  the  color ;  woman's  love,  83s 

Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turned 
Sighing,  and  feigned  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the  fields, 
And  passed  beneath  the  weirdly-sculptured  gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ;  840 

There  bode  the  night :  but  woke  with  dawn,  and  passed 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields. 
Thence  to  the  cave.     So  day  by  day  she  passed, 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him,  845 

And  likewise  many  a  night ;  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  called  his  wound  a  little  hurt 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  393 

Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at  times 

Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 

Uncourteous,  even  he  :  but  the  meek  maid  850 

Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 

Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse, 

Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child. 

And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first  fall, 

Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love  855 

Upbore  her ;  till  the  hermit,  skilled  in  all 

The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 

Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his  life. 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush. 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet  Elaine,  860 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 

Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly, 

And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their  best, 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the  death  865 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  perad venture  had  he  seen  her  first 

She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other  world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man ;  but  now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straitened  him,  870 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood. 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness  made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not  live :  875 

For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him  again. 
Full  often  the  bright  image  of  one  face, 
Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 

Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly  grace  880 

Beamed  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answered  not, 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right  well 
What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but  what  this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimmed  her  sight. 


394  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the  fields'  885 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 

She  murmured,  "  Vain,  in  vain :  it  cannot  be. 

He  will  not  love  me :  how  then ?  must  I  die?  " 

Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird. 

That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes,  800 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 

For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 

Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 

Went  half  the  night  repeating,  *'  Must  I  die  ?  " 

And  now  to  right  she  turned,  and  now  to  left,  895 

And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest ; 

And  ''  Him  or  death,"  she  muttered,  "  death  or  him." 

Again  and  like  a  burthen,  "  Him  or  death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt  was  whole, 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three.  poo 

There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deemed  she  looked  her  best, 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she  thought 
"  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes, 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  fall."  905 

And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of  him 
For  her  own  seK  or  hers :  "  and  do  not  shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me  that  I  make  910 

My  will  of  yours,  and  prince  and  lord  am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to  speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her  wish,  91s 

And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Till  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  morn  it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,  ''  Delay  no  longer,  speak  your  wish, 
Seeing  I  go  to-day :  "  then  out  she  brake :  92g 

^'  Going  ?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  395 

And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word." 

"  Speak :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said,  "  is  yours." 

Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke : 

"  I  have  gone  mad.     I  love  you :  let  me  die."  925 

"  Ah,  sister,"  answered  Lancelot,  '*  what  is  this  ?  " 

And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 

"  Your  love,"  she  said,  "  your  love  —  to  be  your  wife." 

And  Lancelot  answered,  "  Had  I  chosen  to  wed, 

I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine ;  930 

But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine." 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  ''  I  care  not  to  be  wife, 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face. 

To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  the  world." 

And  Lancelot  answered :  "  Nay,  the  world,  the  world,     935 

All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 

To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 

To  blare  its  own  interpretation  —  nay. 

Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brother's  love. 

And  your  good  father's  kindness."     And  she  said,  940 

"  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face  — 

Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are  done  !  " 

"  Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answered,  "  ten  times  nay  ! 

This  is  not  love,  but  love's  first  flash  in  youth, 

Most  common :  yea,  I  know  it  of  mine  own  self ;  94s 

And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own  self 

Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of  life 

To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your  age : 

And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and  sweet 

Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood,  950 

More  specially  should  your  good  knight  be  poor. 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 

Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas. 

So  that  would  make  you  happy :  furthermore, 

Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  were  my  blood,  qss 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 

This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake, 

And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 


396  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blushed  nor  shook,  but  deathly-pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then  replied,  960 

"  Of  all  this  will  I  nothing;  "  and  so  fell. 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black  walls  of  yew 
Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father :  "  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead.  965 

Too  courteous  are  ye,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"  That  were  against  me :  what  I  can  I  will ;  " 
And  there  that  day  remained,  and  toward  even  970 

Sent  for  his  shield :  full  meekly  rose  the  maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked  shield ; 
Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon  the  stones, 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and  looked 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve  had  gone.         975 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  sound ; 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his  hand, 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away.  980 

This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone ;  only  the  case. 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  stiU  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture  formed  985 

And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured  wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low  tones, 
"  Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted  quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  ''  Peace  to  thee. 
Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answered  with  all  calm.  ggo 

But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  397 

Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant  field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  called ;  the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  mixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms  995 

Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song. 
And  called  her  song  "  The  Song  of  Love  and  Death," 
And  sang  it :  sweetly  could  she  make  and  sing. 

"  Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain ;  icjoo 

And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter  death  must  be : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die.  loos 

"  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me;  loio 

Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow  !  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice,  and  this, 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "  Hark  the  Phantom  of  the  house       1015 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and  called 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  blood-red  light  df  dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling,  '*  Let  me  die  !  " 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we  know,  1020 

Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 


398  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Becomes  a  wonder,  and  we  know  not  why, 

So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face,  and  thought 

"  Is  this  Elaine  ?  "  till  back  the  maiden  fell, 

Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay,  102s 

Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her  eyes. 

At  last  she  said :  "  Sweet  brothers,  yesternight 

I  seemed  a  curious  little  maid  again, 

As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the  woods, 

And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the  flood  1030 

Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 

Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 

That  had  the  poplar  on  it :  there  ye  fixt 

Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 

And  yet  I  cried  because  ye  would  not  pass  1035 

Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 

Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  King. 

And  yet  ye  would  not ;  but  this  night  I  dreamed 

That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 

And  then  I  said,  '  Now  shall  I  have  my  will : '  1040 

And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  remained. 

So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 

Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood,  • 

Untfl  I  find  the  palace  of  the  King. 

There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all,  1045 

And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 

But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at  me. 

And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at  me ; 

Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells  to  me, 

Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  bade  me  one :  1050 

And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my  love, 

And  there  the  Queen  herself  wiU  pity  me, 

And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me. 

And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest !  " 

"  Peace,"  said  her  father,  "  O  my  child,  ye  seem       1055 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go 
So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore  would  ye  look 
On  this  proud  feUow  again,  who  scorns  us  all  ?  " 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  399 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave  and  move, 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say :  1060 

"  I  never  loved  him :  an  I  meet  with  him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him  down ; 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him  dead, 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the  house."  1065 

To  whom  the  gentle  sister  made  reply : 
"  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be  wroth. 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the  highest."  1070 

"  Highest?  "  the  father 'answered,  echoing  "  highest?  "  — 
He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her  —  "  nay, 
Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call  the  highest ; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it. 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame :  1075 

And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame ; 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
"  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger :  these  are  slanders ;  never  yet  1080 

Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a  foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain :  so  let  me  pass. 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you,  1085 

Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return : 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own  desire ; 
For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you  say  1090 

I  should  but  die  the  sooner ;  wherefore  cease, 
Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and  die." 


400  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and  gone, 
She,  with  a  face  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven,  ioqs 

Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word ;  and  when  he  asked, 
"  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord  ? 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly;  "  she  replied, 
"  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the  world,         noo 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."     Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "  O  sweet  father,  tender  and  true, 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said  —  "  ye  never  yet 
Denied  my  fancies  —  this,  however  strange,  1105 

My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it;  I  shall  guard  it  even" in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my  heart. 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died  mo 

For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the  Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge  1115 

Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own  self. 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone  1120 

Go  with  me ;  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors." 

She  ceased :  her  father  promised ;  whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deemed  her  death 
Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood.  1125 

But  ten  slow  mornings  passed,  and  on  the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  401 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from  underground,       1130 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Passed  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that  shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the  barge. 
Palled  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite,  lay.  1135 

There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the  house. 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck. 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot  took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her  bed,  1140 

Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings. 
And  kissed  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to  her, 
"  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 
**  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in  tears.  1145 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the  dead, 
Oared  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  with  the  flood  — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter  —  all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down  — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold  1150 

Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead. 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace  craved  1155 

Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift. 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and  blow. 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his  own. 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds :  for  he  saw  1160 

One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen  agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seemed  her  statue,  but  that  he, 
Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kissed  her  feet  1165 

For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 


402  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

The  shadow  of  some  piece  of  pointed  lace, 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the  walls, 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side,  1170 

Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the  stream, 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneehng  uttered,  ''  Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  you. 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making  them  1175 

An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth. 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's :  these  are  words : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of  it  1180 

Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.     Such  sin  in  words 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon :  but,  my  Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust  1185 

To  make  up  that  defect :  let  rumors  be : 
When  did  not  rumors  fly  ?  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turned  away,  the  Queen      ngo 
Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  off. 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was  green ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  passive  hand 
Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems  ugs 

There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied : 

"  It  may  be  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill,  uoo 

It  can  be  broken  easier.    I  for  you 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  403 

This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and  wrong 

To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 

I  did  acknowledge  nobler.     What  are  these  ? 

Diamonds  for  me  !  they  had  been  thrice  their  worth  1205 

Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your  own. 

To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 

Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me  ! 

For  her  !  for  your  new  fancy.     Only  this 

Grant  me,  I  pray  you :  have  your  joys  apart.  1210 

I  doubt  not  that,  however  changed,  you  keep 

So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 

Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of  courtesy 

In  which  as  Arthur's  Queen  I  move  and  rule : 

So  cannot  speak  my  mind.     An  end  to  this  !  1215 

A  strange  one  !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 

So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her  pearls ; 

Deck  her  with  these ;  tell  her  she  shines  me  down : 

An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen's 

Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck  1220 

O  as  much  fairer  —  as  a  faith  once  fair 

Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  —  hers  not  mine  — 

Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself. 

Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my  will  — 

She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized,  1225 

And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide  for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flashed,  and  smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flashed,  as  it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  passed  away. 
Then,  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disdain  1230 

At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window  ledge, 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  passed  the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night.  1235 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst  away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ;  and  the  barge, 


404  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 

There  two  stood  armed,  and  kept  the  door ;  to  whom. 

All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier,  1240 

Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes  that  asked, 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  but  that  oarsman's  haggard  face. 

As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 

Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken  rocks 

On  some  cliff-side,  appalled  them,  and  they  said,  1245 

**  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and  she, 

Look  how  she  sleeps  —  the  Fairy  Queen,  so  fair  ! 

Yea,  but  how  pale  !  what  are  they  ?  flesh  and  blood 

Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairyland  ? 

For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die,  1250 

But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights :  then  turned  the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half -face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors.  1255 

So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wondered  at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her,  1260 

And  last  the  Queen  herseK,  and  pitied  her : 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ;  this  was  all : 

"  Most  noble  lord.  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
I,  sometime  called  the  maid  of  Astolat,  1265 

Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell. 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return. 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my  death. 
•     And  therefore  to  our  Lady  Guinevere,  1270 

And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan : 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too.  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless."  ,j 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  405 

Thus  he  read ; 
And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and  dames  1275 

Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times. 
So  touched  were  they,  half-thinking  that  her  lips, 
who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them  all  1280 

"  My  lord  Uege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that  hear, 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's  death 
Right  heavy  am  I ;  for  good  she  was  and  true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known.  1285 

Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again ; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in  youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I  gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love : 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony,  1290 

Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and  use, 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature :  what  I  could,  I  did. 
I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell ;  1295 

Tho'  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would  have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough  use, 
And  helped  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after  storm) 
"  Ye  might  at  least  have  done  her  so  much  grace,  1300 

Fair  lord,  as  would  have  helped  her  from  her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and  hers  fell, 
He  adding : 

"  Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not  be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the  world,  she  asked ;    1305 
It  could  not  be.     I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken  down, 


4o6  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 

Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  —  then  would  I, 

More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor,  13 lo 

Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 

In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow  seas, 

To  keep  them  in  all  joyance :  more  than  this 

I  could  not;  this  she  would  not,  and  she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answered,  "  O  my  knight,  1315 

It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my  knight. 
And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all  the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went  1320 

The  marshalled  Order  of  their  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown, 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 
And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a  queen.  1325 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her  comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "  Let  her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon, 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet  1330 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  true  hearts  be  blazoned  on  her  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  azure  1  "  which  was  wrought 
Thereafter ;  but  when  now  the  lords  and  dames  133s 

And  people,  from  the  high  door  streaming,  brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who  marked  Sir  Lancelot  where  he  moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and  sighed  in  passing,  "  Lancelot, 
Forgive  me ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love."  1340 

.     He  answered  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

''  That  is  love's  curse ;  pass  on,  my  Queen,  forgiven." 
But  Arthur,  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows. 
Approached  him,  and  with  full  affection  said : 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  407 

"  Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom  I  have  1345 

Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watched  thee  at  the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised  knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskilled  go  by  1350 

To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  i^ian 
Made  to  be  loved ;  but  now  I  would  to  God, 
Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine  eyes, 
Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden,  shaped,  it  seems,    1355 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a  lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons  1360 

Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame. 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake.'* 

Then  answered  Lancelot :  "  Fair  she  was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye,  1365 

To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a  heart  — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not  be  bound." 

"  Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest,"  said  the  King. 
"  Let  love  be  free ;  free  love  is  for  the  best :  1370 

And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of  death. 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness  ?  yet  thee 
She  failed  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think. 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know."  1375 

And  Lancelot  answered  nothing,  but  he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watched 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that'  brought  her  moving  down,  1380 


4o8  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 

Low  in  himself,  "  Ah,  simple  heart  and  sweet, 

Ye  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 

Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray  for  thy  soul  ? 

Ay,  that  will  I.     Farewell  too  —  now  at  last  —  1385 

Farewell,  fair  lily.     '  Jealousy  in  love  ?  ' 

Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous  pride  ? 

Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love, 

May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and  fame 

Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes  ?  1390 

Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to  me  ? 

Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a  reproach,  1 

Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  ' 

Caught  from  his  mother's  arms  —  the  wondrous  one 

Who  passes  thro'  the  vision  of  the  night  —  1395 

She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  hymns 

Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and  morn  ^ 

She  kissed  me  saying,  '  Thou  art  fair,  my  child,  ' 

As  a  king's  son,'  and  often  in  her  arms 

She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere.  1400 

Would  she  had  drowned  me  in  it,  where'er  it  be  ! 

For  what  am  I  ?  what  profits  me  my  name 

Of  greatest  knight  ?     I  fought  for  it,  and  have  it : 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ;  to  lose  it,  pain ; 

Now  grown  a  part  of  me :  but  what  use  in  it  ?  1405 

To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin  known  ? 

Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great  ? 

Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 

Not  after  Arthur's  heart !  I  needs  must  break 

These  bonds  that  so  defame  me :  not  without  1410 

She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  willed  it  ?  nay. 

Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then  may  God, 

I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  angel  down 

To  seize  mt  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 

And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere,  1415 

Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills." 

So  groaned  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  409 

THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 

First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  knights, 

Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a  voice 

In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 

With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other  minds.  $ 

For  on  their  march  to  westward,  Bedivere, 
Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumbering  host, 
Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the  King : 

"  I  found  Him  in  the  shining  of  the  stars, 
I  marked  Him  in  the  flowering  of  His  fields,  10 

But  in  His  ways  with  men  I  find  Him  not. 
I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and  die. 
O  me  !  for  why  is  all  around  us  here 
As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the  world. 
But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would,  is 

Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond. 
And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful  ? 
Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly  fair, 
But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense  and  dim, 
And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is :  20 

Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the  close ;  — • 
For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work  His  will. 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword  in  vain ; 
And  all  whereon  I  leaned  in  wife  and  friend 
Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my  realm  25 

Reels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no  more. 
My  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in  my  death : 
Nay  —  God  my  Christ  —  I  pass  but  shall  not  die." 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  west. 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain  killed  30 

In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain  blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling,  "  Hollow,  hollow  all  delight ! 


4IO  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Hail,  King  !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass  away. 

Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee.  35 

And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind, 

And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight !  " 

And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that  change 

Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their  way 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind  the  dream       40 

Shrilled ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim  cries 

Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills. 

As  of  some  lonely  city  sacked  by  night. 

When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with  wail 

Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke  and  called,  45 

"  Who  spake  ?    A  dream.     O  light  upon  the  wind, 

Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  —  are  these  dim  cries 

Thine  ?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste  and  wild 

Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with  me  ?  V 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and  spake :  50 

"  O  me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever  will. 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the  field ; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass.  5$ 

Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in  death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him,  but  rise  — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west. 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and  knights  60 

Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but  grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for  the  King. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old.'' 
« 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere :  65 

*'  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove  in  youth, 
And  brake  the  petty  kings,  and  fought  with  Rome, 
And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman  wall,       j 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  411 

And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.     Ill  doom  is  mine  70 

To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights. 

The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  himself. 

And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me  once,  the  stroke 

That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to  me. 

Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way  75 

Thro'  this  blind  haze  which,  ever  since  I  saw 

One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 

Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his  host  by  night, 
And  ever  pushed  Sir  Modred,  league  by  league,  80 

Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse  — • 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again ; 
Where'  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples  dwelt, 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a  coast  «$ 

Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  King ; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light  of  heaven         90 
Burned  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year. 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they  closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  west. 
A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea,  95 

Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed  it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was  cold 
With  formless  fear ;  and  ev'n  on  Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought. 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist,  100 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle ;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base,  105 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in  single  fights, 


412  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard  mail  hewn. 

Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands,  the  crash 

Of  battle-axes  on  shattered  helms,  and  shrieks  i 

After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 

Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist ; 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor  knights. 

Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blasphemies. 

Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of  the  lungs  i 

In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the  light. 

Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after  wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that  shore,  : 

Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous  day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling,  came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and  blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the  tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  King  glanced  across  the  field 
Of  battle :  but  no  man  was  moving  there ; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 
Nor  yet  of  heathen ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro  130 

Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and  down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the  fallen. 
And  shivered  brands  that  once  had  fought  with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be.  135 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day  long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  King : 

"  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that  shakes  the  world, 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon  we  move,  14a 

And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  413 

My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for  me  ?  — 

O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 

Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am. 

Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be  King.  14s 

Behold,  I  seem  but  King  among  the  dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere :  "  My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and  so  the  dead  have  kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  King. 

Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live  150 

Who  love  thee ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he  that  brought 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder  stands, 
Modred,  unharmed,  the  traitor  of  thine  house." 

Then  spake  the  King :  "  My  house  hath  been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house  155 

Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof  with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my  vows. 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  owned  me  King. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark  hour, 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath  failed,  160 

That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for  King. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry ; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thou  see 
Yet,  ere  I  pass."     And  uttering  this  the  King 
Made  at  the  man :  then  Modred  smote  his  liege  165 

Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin ;  while  Arthur  at  one  blow. 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and,  all  but  slain  himself,  he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled  170 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur.     Then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him,  17s 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 


414  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 

That  stood 'on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land : 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full.  180 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all  ; 

The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we  185 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  —  190 

Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more ;  but,  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur,  195 

Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  rowed  across  200 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  after  time,  this  also  shall  be  known : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere ;  205 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  Hghtly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm  — 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man ;  210 

Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 


lere  drewlJie  forth  [the  brand  lExcal]ibur,\ 
o'er!  him,  drawing  it.ithe  winjter  moon,  I    ^ 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  415 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men,  215 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

V 

There 
And^  ..  , 

Brigfitenin'^the'  skirts  [oi  a  bng  [cloudTlran  forth  ^ 
And  sp'arjkled  keenjwitji  frost\againstltne  hilt ;  \ 
For  all\th'eji^aft(  twinkled  Iwith  diapiond  sparks,  | 
Myriads  bf  topaz^lights,|  anS  jajcinth-work  I  225 

Of  subljlest  jew(elry.  \  He  gazed  | so  long  )  r.^.^^.^.^.J^^^'*-^ 

That  both  \his  eyes  ^ere  dazzled  as\he  stood,  I  -  ,_,^^-Z^^"-^ 

This  wayi  and  that  pivic^ng  the  Wif  t  mind,  (     'TIllClS^^IIirH-^ 
In  act  to  throw  i  ^i^t  j,t  \the^last\  it  seemed  ( 
Better!  to  leaveJExmibur  Iconcealed  I 
There  inlthejnany-knocted  watlpr-flags,! 

That  wtisjled  s^tiff(and  dry  bbout)thejnarge.| . 

So  strodd  he  back  |  slow  to]  the  wounded  King.  \ 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave?  23s 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?  " 


And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale :  240 

"  Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight ; 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere.  245 


230 


41 6  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  he. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again, 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time  250 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud :  255 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ?  260 

What  harm,  undone  ?     Deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himseK  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does.  265 

What  record  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?     But  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms,  270 

Saying :  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime  275 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King.  280 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  417 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
**  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds."  285 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  I 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 

Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye  290 

That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl  29s 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence:' 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands."  300 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutched  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon,  305 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  Northern  Sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur ;  •  310 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King.  315 


4l8  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him ; 
But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  haK  rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
.    And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walked.  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 


TEE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  419 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walked,         350 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 

Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 

Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right  3S5 

The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo,  the  level  lake. 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon  !  360 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral* scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by  these       365 
Three  "Queens  with  crowns  of  gold :  and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes,  370 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmured  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge." 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all  37s 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white  380 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dashed  with  drops 
Of  onset ;   and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun  385 


420  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parched  with  dust, 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 

Mixt  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King ; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest,  390 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ?  39s 

Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noblfe  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led  400 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world. 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years,  405 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge : 
"  The  old  order  change th,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world.  410 

Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but  thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer  415 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  meti  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
K,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer  420 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 


^- 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  42 1 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way . 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — ■  425 

For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt  — 

To  the  island- valley  of  Avilion ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns  430 

And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea, 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death,  435 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away.  440 

But  when  that  moan  had  passed  for  evermore, 
The  stillness  of  the  dead  world's  winter  dawn 
Amazed  him,  and  he  groaned,  "  The  King  is  gone." 
And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird  rhyme, 
"  From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes."  445 

Whereat  he  slowly  turned  and  slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag ; 
Thence  marked  the  black  huH  moving  yet,  and  cried, 
"  He  passes  to  be  King  among  the  dead. 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound  450 

He  comes  again ;  but  —  if  he  come  no  more  — 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat. 
Who  shrieked  and  wailed,  the  three  whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with  living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence,  friends  455 

Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need  ?  " 


422  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seemed  there  came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  Hmit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice  460 

Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw. 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the  King,  465 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 


6.  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE:    COMPLETION  OF  THE 
ROMANTIC  MOVEMENT 

Those  who  cease  their  reading  of  English  poetry  with  Tennyson 
and  his  immediate  contemporaries  close  the  book  before  it  is  done. 
One  of  the  most  inspiriting  and  marvellous  chapters  is  that  writ- 
ten by  ROSSETTi,  MORRIS,  and  Swinburne.  It  was  their  glory  to 
round  out  the  Romantic  movement.  The  student  will  recall  how 
this  movement  had  originated,  during  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  in  a  reassertion  of  the  poetic  values  of  passion,  imagination, 
love  of  nature,  and  variety  of  metrical  form, — all  of  which  were  in  dis- 
repute during  the  age  of  reason  and  wit.  James  Thomson,  Gray,  Gold- 
smith, Cowper,  Crabbe,  Blake,  Lamb,  and  Burns  had  all  contributed  in 
one  way  or  another  to  this  revival.  With  the  appearance  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  in  1798,  the  Romantic  movement  had  realized  itself  and  its 
aim.  Then  followed  the  work  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  Scott 
and  Southey,  Shelley,  Byron,  and  Keats,  and  the  other  early  nine- 
teenth century  Romanticists;  English  poetry  was  vocal  with  new 
measures,  expressing  splendidly  and  vigorously  a  new  imaginative 
sense  of  man  and  nature.  In  the  Victorian  Age  Tennyson  had  added 
a  further  grace  of  diction,  a  new  sweetness  of  music,  a  surpassing  love- 
liness of  image  and  description  to  a  poetry  already  amazingly  rich. 
But  now  diction,  music,  and  theme  were  to  experience  still  another 
impetus.  The  movement  started  by  Rossetti,  promoted  by  Morris, 
and  completed  by  Swinburne  invigorated  the  language  of  poetry  at  a 


COMPLETION  OF   THE  ROMANTIC  MOVEMENT       423 

time  when  Tennyson  and  his  followers,  always  melodious,  were  re- 
peating their  pet  words  and  phrases  and  becoming  vapid  and  conven- 
tional.    "  It  did  again  what  Tennyson  had  done  in  his  early  prime. 
It  dared  to  use  simple  and  direct  words,  which  it  infused  with  newj 
and  audacious  charm."     Here  Swinburne  and  Morris  contributed  as! 
much  or  more  than  Rossetti.     But  in  the  second  contribution  —  f 
that  of  a  more  varied  and  richer  music  —  Swinburne  is  supreme.     By 
him  especially  were  verbal  melody  and  harmony,  which  Tennyson  had 
brought  apparently  to  their  highest  pitch,  so  elaborated  that  no  suc- 
ceeding poet  has  equalled  him  in  this  respect. 

From  its  innovation  in  theme,  or  matter,  this  culminating  move^ 
ment  takes  its  distinctive  name,  —  Pre-Raphaelite.  The  origin  of 
the  name  explains  the  nature  of  the  innovation.  In  1848  at  the  Royal 
Academy  Rossetti  made  the  acquaintance  of  two  fellow  students  of 
painting,  Holman  Hunt  and  John  Millais.  A  friendship  sprang  up 
which  was  to  have  a  vast,  influence  not  only  upon  the  careers  of  all 
three  but  upon  the  future  of  English  art  and  indirectly  upon  that  of 
poetry.  These  youths  shared  a  common  dislike  for  the  dominating 
school  in  English  painting.  It  seemed  to  them  insincere:  preten- 
tious or  sentimental  in  conception  and  imitative  in  technique.  Even 
the  portraits  by  the  great  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  they  condemned  as 
lacking  in  imaginative  originality  and  fidelity  to  fact.  "  In  the  de- 
signs of  Blake  alone,  whom  they  were  the  first  to  appreciate  at  his 
true  worth,"  Rossetti  and  his  friends  "  discerned  a  poetical  imagi- 
nation and  an  independent  spirit  at  work."  One  night  at  Millais' 
house  they  were  looking  at  a  book  of  engravings  of  early  Italian 
painters  whose  work,  though  not  in  itself  of  transcendent  or  even 
acknowledged  worth,  seemed  to  them  to  have  the  valuable  merit  of 
freshness  and  independence.  These  medieval  painters  of  the  time 
before  Raphael  had  the  qualities  these  young  Victorian  artists  were 
striving  for :  simplicity,  naturalness,  and  sincerity ;  wonder,  rever- 
ence, and  awe;  originality  of  design  and  of  imaginative  interpreta-  - 
tion ;  an  unspoiled  devotion  to  their  art  and  a  deep,  spiritual  enjoy- 
ment in  creating  beauty.  In  the  autumn  of  1848  the  three  friends 
and  some  of  their  associates  in  painting,  sculpture,  and  criticism  formed 
a  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  to  further  the  advance  of  their  tenets 
in  art  and  a  revolt  against  the  conventionality  of  the  reigning  school. 

As  an  art,  poetry  was  soon  included  in  the  movement ;  and  though 
the  primary  object  of  the  Brotherhood  was  the  revival  not  so  much  of 
the  subjects  as  the  inspiration  of  the  medieval  artists,  yet  the  one^ 
tended  to  include  the  other.     Nor  was  this  emphasis  upon  themes 


424  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

drawn  from  the  past  uncongenial  to  Romanticism.  We  have  seen 
how  a  similar  interest  colors  the  poetry  of  Gray,  Blake,  Scott,  Cole- 
ridge, Keats,  and  Tennyson.  Among  other  sources  of  inspiration 
those  poets  had,  moreover,  drawn  largely  from  the  Middle  Ages.  But 
to  the  medievalism  of  the  early  romanticists  the  new  poets  added  a 
sincerity,  naturalness,  and  reverential  beauty  to  which  their  fore- 
runners had  rarely  attained,  and  for  the  attainment  of  which  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  school  was  founded.  In  the  paintings  of  Rossetti,  Holman 
Hunt,  and  Burne- Jones  these  qualities  are  preeminent,  and  in  Rossetti's 
Blessed  Damozel  they  appear  in  the  form  of  poetry.  He,  indeed, 
was  head  and  front  of  the  school.  From  him  both  Morris  and  Swin- 
burne caught  something  of  the  inspiration  of  this  spiritualized  medi- 
evalism. Rossetti  and  his  followers  gave  reality  to  the  remoteness 
and  shadowiness  of  medieval  subjects.  They  made  the  past  seem  real 
by  treating  it  as  if  it  had  the  life  of  the  present. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI   (1828-1882) 

Rossetti's  poetry  is  not  dominated  by  any  creed,  not  even  by  that 
of  the  Pre-Raphaelites.  In  art  he  shaped  the  movement  more  than 
he  was  shaped  by  it.  In  his  poetry  characteristics  of  its  method 
appear  in  the  draft  of  The  Blessed  Damozel  written  before  the  Brother- 
hood was  formed.  The  medieval  impulse  is  there  and  so  too  is  the 
pictorial  element.  These  arid  the  mystical  quality  and  the  natural- 
nCss^re  all  to  be  found  in  The  Portrait  and  in  other  early  poems. 
His  mysticism  and  his  inclination  to  supernatural  motive  and  atmos- 
phere derive  from  his  familiarity  with  the  Italian  poets  —  especially 
Dante  —  and  with  Coleridge,  Keats,  and  Blake,  and  from  the  dreamy, 
religious  spirit  of  his  family.  The  Pre-Raphaelites  also  demanded 
precision  of  detail  —  almost  realism.  But  Rossetti's  details  are  not 
mechanical ;  he  has  seen  them  with  the  eye  of  imagination  and  suffused 
them  with  feeling.  His  combination  of  the  dramatic  and  romantic 
in  narrative  verse  may  be  traced  in  part  to  early  English  ballads. 
The  descriptive  quality  and  the  sensuous  imagery  of  his  poetry  owe 
more  to  Keats  —  to  poems  like  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  —  than  to  any 
other  source.  He  worshipped  human  loveliness,  but  he  says  it  is 
"  as  nought  if  not  ennobled  by  the  concurrence  of  the  soul  at  all  times." 
The  art  of  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Tennyson  contributed  to 
"the  music  of  his  verse,  especially  his  lyrical  verse.  But  in  variety  of 
rhythmic  movement,  the  melodious  sequence  of  vowel  and  consonant 
sounds,    and  the  harmony  of   echoing  rhyme,  both  he  and  Swin- 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  425 

bume,  who  owed  much  to  him,  have    frequently  surpassed    their 
masters  and  have  not  yet  been  improved  upon. 

Of  his  ballads  the  noblest  and  most  dramatic  is  Sister  Helen,  of 
which  the  original  version  was  written  when  he  was  about  twenty- 
three;  the  most  characteristic  is  Rose  Mary.  The  White  Ship  and 
The  King^s  Tragedy  are  vivid  and  vigorous.  These  and  other  poems, 
such  as  My  Sister's  Sleep,  The  Portrait,  Mary's  Girlhood,  and  The 
Burden  of  Nineveh,  will  be  enjoyed  by  lovers  of  poetry. 

1828-1848.  —  Rossetti  was  born  in  London,  May  12,  1828.  His 
father,  an  Italian  patriot  who  had  been  driven  from  his  country,  was 
professor  of  Italian  in  King's  College,  London,  a  scholar  in  medieval 
life  and  letters,  and  something  of  a  poet.  He  reared  his  children  in 
an  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  mystical  religion.  They  were  all 
gifted  with  literary  and  artistic  ability:  Christina's  name  stands 
high  among  the  women  poets  of  England,  and  William's  among  the 
critics  of  literature  and  the  fine  arts.  Dante  Gabriel  left  school  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  to  devote  himself  to  painting.  During  his  early 
manhood,  indeed,  he  was  better  known  as  a  painter  than  as  a  poet, 
though  many  of  his  best  poems  were  written  and  others  begun  before 
he  was  thirty-five.  He  completed  the  first  draft  of  The  Blessed 
Damozel  in  his  nineteenth  year,  when  he  had  already  fallen  captive  to 
Coleridge,  Shelley,  and  Keats.  But  Keats  remained  always  his 
chosen  poet,  and  his  favorite  poem  was  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci. 
Browning,  too,  he  passionately  enjoyed  for  a  while.  Of  his  reading 
of  Poe  something  is  said  in  the  Notes. 

1848-1870.  —  We  have  already  told  the  story  of  Rossetti's  share 
in  forming  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  in  1848.  Between  1850 
and  i860  he  devoted  himself  principally  to  painting,  but  in  1856  both 
he  and  Morris  published  poems  in  The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Maga- 
zine. Among  Rossetti's  contributions  were  The  Burden  of  Nineveh 
and  a  second  version  of  The  Blessed  Damozel.  In  i860  he  married 
Elizabeth  Eleanor  Siddal,  a  delicate  and  very  beautiful  girl  who  had 
for  ten  years  been  his  inspiration  in  both  poetry  and  painting.  In 
1862  she  died.  Rossetti  was  broken-hearted  and  he  buried  with  her 
the  manuscript  of  his  poems,  including  the  first  draft  of  a  sonnet 
sequence.  The  House  of  Life,  which  immortalizes  their  love.  In  1870 
the  manuscript  was  disinterred  and  the  poems  were  published  in 
the  same  year,  —  his  first  volume  of  printed  verse. 

1870-1882.  —  After  the  death  of  his  wife  Rossetti  had  removed  to 
a  house  in  Chelsea,  No.  16,  Cheyne  Walk.  There,  for  some  years, 
his  brother  William  and  Swinburne  and  Meredith  lived  with  him. 


426  ROSSETTI 

This  was  his  home  for  the  rest  of  his  Hfe,  though  for  a  year  or  two  he 
was  joint-tenant  with  William  Morris  of  a  country  house  at  Kelmscott. 
His  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  his  wife  was  never  assuaged ;  he  was  much  of 
a  recluse,  and  his  health  failed  rapidly.  In  1881  appeared  his  Ballads 
and  Sonnets.  On  April  9  of  the  following  year  he  died,  attended  to 
the  last  by  his  brother  and  several  friends,  among  whom  was  the  poet, 
Edmund  Gosse. 


THE  BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven.  6 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift. 

For  service  meetly  worn ; 
Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn.  12 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years.  18 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place. 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.)  24 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL  427 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun.  30 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge.  36 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames.  43 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm. 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm.  48 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres.  54 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 


428  ROSSETTI 

Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together.  60 

(Ah  sweet !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?)  66 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ?  —  on  earth. 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pra^yed  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ?  72 

"  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings. 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight.  78 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine. 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod. 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud.  84 

"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly.  yo 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL  429 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs  I  sing  here ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow. 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know."  g6 

(Alas  !  We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?)  102 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys.  108 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread. 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  a-re  just  born,  being  dead.  114 

"  Hfi  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love. 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak.  120 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 


43®  TEE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles : 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles.  126 

"  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me :  — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love,  only  to  be, 
As  then  awhile,  forever  now 

Together,  I  and  he."  132 

She  gazed  and  Hstened  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 
"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 

The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  filled 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled.  138 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres : 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands. 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.)  "  144 

WILLIAM  MORRIS   (1834-1896) 

Among  modern  English  poets  William  Morris  is  the  master  of 
metrical  romance.  His  particular  forte  lies  not  so  much  in  the  dra- 
matic realization  of  character,  situation,  and  plot  —  though  this  is 
present  in  sufficient  degree  —  but  rather  in  presenting  a  romantic 
story  of  the  past,  especially  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as  a  series  of 
alluring  pictures  in  a  haze  of  dreamy  beauty.  "  His  poetry  deals, 
it  is  true,  with  the  human  passions,  but  the  emotion  is  always  seen 
as  in  a  picture ;  he  is  more  concerned  with  the  attitude  of  the  group 
than  with  the  realization  of  a  character."  He  was  greatl>'  influenced 
by  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Movement  and,  though  he  was  nol:  a  member 
of  the  Brotherhood,  he  was  even  more  observant  of  thf'  sights  and 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  43 1 

sounds  and  moods  of  nature  than  was  Rossetti,  more  careful  of  de- 
tail, more. of  a  pictorial  poet,  because  he  regarded  nature  as  an  essen- 
tial background  to  his  portrayal  of  human  beauty  and  passion.  He 
loved  "  the  kindly  and  gracious  earth  "  and  he  interweaves  that  love 
with  his  love  of  human  romance  and  tragedy.  In  his  first  volume 
of  verse.  The  Defence  of  Guenevere  and  Other  Poems,  though  the  crafts- 
manship is  still  immature,  the  narrative  vision,  the  sympathy  with 
what  is  vital  in  the  romance  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  pictorial  imagi- 
nation, and  the  spontaneity  of  utterance  are  evidence  of  genius.  The 
simplicity  and  the  pathos  of  the  human  interest,  the  sensitiveness 
to  the  color  and  form  of  natural  beauty  in  the  Guenevere,  and  the  grim- 
ness  of  detail  in  The  Haystack  in  the  Flood,  mark  the  advent  of  the 
master.  In  his  greatest  romances.  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason  and 
The  Earthly  Paradise,  his  acknowledged  model  was  Chaucer.  But 
in  these  old  stories  retold  Chaucer  influences  the  form  rather  than  the 
mood.  Like  his  model  Morris  tells  a  good  tale  for  the  delight  that 
fiction  gives,  but  in  reproducing  the  manners  of  the  past  he  is  never 
forgetful  of  the  serious  issues  and  the  sadness  that  in  all  ages  temper 
the  brief  sweetness  of  life.  In  theme  and  treatment  the  narrative 
in  these  two  great  works  is  in  places  not  only  serious  but  epical.  The 
epical  quality  is  predominant  in  his  last  and  noblest  poem,  Sigurd 
the  Volsung  and  the  Fall  of  the  Nihlungs.  The  verse  and  the  imagery 
are  superb ;  the  narrative  movement  vigorous  ;  the  moral  conception 
and  the  tragic  outcome  not  only  true  to  the  medieval  sources,  but  of 
profound  spiritual  import  for  our  modern  age.  Throughout  Morris' 
work  runs  a  protest  against  the  crass  commercialism  of  modern  in- 
dustry that  crushes  the  individual's  delight  in  his  handicraft  and 
leaves  him  no  time  to  "  invite  his  soul."  This  protest  and  the  dreamy, 
pictorial  beauty  of  which  we  have  spoken  are  evident  in  the  Apology 
printed  below.  The  easy,  swinging  rhythms  and  the  manly  simplicity 
of  The  Writing  cm  the  Image,  and  its  picturesque  quality,  carry  a  nat- 
ural appeal.  But  for  a  full  illustration  of  Morris'  poetical  qualities 
recourse  should  be  had  to  the  series  of  poems  mentioned  above. 

1834-1856.  —  Morris  was  born  at- Walthamstow,  near  London, 
March  24,  1834,  of  a  well-to-do  family.  He  was  always  a  prodigious 
reader.  At  four  he  knew  most  of  the  Waverley  novels;  at  about 
six  he  was  particularly  interested  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  at  school 
he  discovered  the  charm  of  medieval  literature.  In  1853  he  entered 
Exeter  College,  Oxford,  where  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Edward 
Burne- Jones,  who  taught  him  to  appreciate  Chaucer  and  Malory's 
Morte  Darthur  and  northern  mythology  and  epic.     In  1855  a  few 


432  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

students  of  congenial  tastes  formed  a  society  called  the  Brotherhood, 
—  a  name  apparently  suggested  by  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood. 
The  next  year  Morris  and  Burne- Jones  met  Rossetti,  by  whose  poetry 
they  had  already  been  attracted.  They  were  carried  off  their  feet 
by  Rossetti's  influence.  Morris  had  founded  at  his  own  expense  the 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine,  which  ran  for  twelve  numbers. 
Rossetti  contributed  to  it,  as  we  have  seen,  and  here  Morris  published 
his  first  poems  and  prose  stories.  They  are  juvenile  in  technique  but 
they  manifest  his  fondness  for  the  archaic  and  the  picturesque,  and 
the  prose  stories  catch  the  spirit  of  medieval  life. 

1856-1877.  —  With  a  view  to  a  profession  he  had  meanwhile,  in 
1856,  entered  upon  the  study  of  architecture  at  an  office  in  Oxford, 
but  at  Rossetti's  advice  he  now  gave  up  architecture  and  began 
painting  under  the  poet-painter's  guidance.  In  1858  appeared  his 
first  volume  of  verse.  The  Defence  of  Guenevere  and  other  Po^m^,  noticed 
above.  The  next  year  he  married  Jane  Burden,  a  beautiful  Oxford 
girl  who  had  been  the  model  for  much  of  his  painting  and  whose  face, 
like  that  of  Mrs.  Rossetti,  appears  in  many  of  the  paintings  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelite  school.  Two  years  later  he  began  to  apply  his  taste 
and  his  knowledge  of  art  to  practical  uses  by  establishing  a  firm  of 
art-decorators.  This  enterprise  he  promoted  with  great  success 
until  his  death.  The  Morris  reforms  in  interior  decoration  did  more 
than  any  other  agency  to  dispel  tasteless  ornament  and  ugly  furni- 
ture from  British  and  American  homes.  But  Morris  continued  to 
write.  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason  (1867)  and  the  collection  of 
beautiful  romances  known  as  The  Earthly  Paradise  (1868-18 70)  es- 
tablished his  supremacy  as  a  poet  of  metrical  romance,  Sigurd  the 
Volsung  appeared  in  1876. 

1877-1896.  —  Morris  now  became  interested  in  Socialism.  His 
literary  efforts  for  the  next  ten  years  were  largely  directed  against 
the  commercialism  of  the  age  in  a  deliberate  attempt  to  "  set  the 
crooked  straight"  by  the  introduction  of  sweeping  social  and  industrial 
reforms.  The  best  known  of  his  poetic  contributions  to  the  cause  is 
his  Chants  for  Socialists.  Of  his  prose  romances  on  the  same  subject 
and  of  those  on  medieval  life  we  have  not  space  to  write,  nor  of  his 
verse  translations  of  the  Aemid  and  the  Odyssey.  All  are  of  high  ar- 
tistic worth.  Eventually  he  was  discouraged  by  the  impatience  of  the 
extreme  socialists  and  devoted  much  time  to  initiating  and  developing 
a  revival  in  the  art  of  printing.  At  Kelmscott,  his  country  home,  he 
set  up  a  private  printing-press  from  which  he  issued  many  books  ex- 
quisite in  typography  and  binding.     On  October  3,  1896,  he  died.  — 


I 


AN  APOLOGY  433 

leaving  behind  him  a  life-story  of  indomitable  energy  and  mtdtif arious 
j  activity,  as  romantically  pictui'esque  as  his  own  poetry,  paintings, 
j  and  designs.  All  that  he  had  touched  had  been  transmuted  into 
I  beauty. 


AN  APOLOGY 
(From  The  Earthly  Paradise) 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.  c  7 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh. 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by. 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die, 
Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray. 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.  14 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead. 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day.  21 

• 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight  ? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 


434  MORRIS 

To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 

Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day.  28 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king  I 

At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring. 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow. 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day.  35 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me. 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss  / 

Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea. 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be ; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day.  42 

THE  WRITING  ON  THE  IMAGE 

(From  The  Earthly  Paradise) 

Argument 

How  on  an  Image  that  stood  anciently  in  Rome  were  written 
certain  words,  which  none  understood,  until  a  Scholar,  coming 
there,  knew  their  meaning,  and  thereby  discovered  great  marvels, 
but  withal  died  miserably. 

In  haK-forgotten  days  of  old. 

As  by  our  fathers  we  were  told. 

Within  the  town  of  Rome  there  stood 

An  image  cut  of  cornel  wood, 

And  on  the  upraised  hand  of  it 

Men  might  behold  these  letters  writ  — 

"  Percute  Hic  :  "  which  is  to  say. 

In  that  tongue  that  we  speali  to-day, 

"  Strike  here  !  "  nor  yet  did  any  know 

The  cause  why  this  was  written  so.  .    ^         10 


THE  WRITING  ON   THE  IMAGE  435 

Thus  in  the  middle  of  the  square, 
In  the  hot  sun  and  summer  air, 
The  snow-drift  and  the  driving  rain, 
That  image  stood,  with  Httle  pain. 
For  twice  a  hundred  years  and  ten ;  15 

While  many  a  band  of  striving  men 
Were  driven  betwixt  woe  and  mirth 
Swiftly  across  the  weary  earth. 
From  nothing  unto  dark  nothing : 
And  many  an  Emperor  and  King,  20 

Passing  with  glory  or  with  shame, 
Left  little  record  of  his  name, 
And  no  remembrance  of  the  face 
Once  watched  with  awe  for  gifts  or  grace. 

Fear  little,  then,  I  counsel  you,  25 

What  any  son  of  man  can  do ; 
Because  a  log  of  wood  will  last 
While  many  a  life  of  man  goes  past, 
And  all  is  over  in  short  space. 

Now  so  it  chanced  that  to  this  place  30 

There  came  a  man  of  Sicily, 
Who  when  the  image  he  did  see. 
Knew  full  well  who,  in  days  of  yore. 
Had  set  it  there ;  for  much  strange  lore, 
In  Egypt  and  in  Babylon,  35 

This  man  with  painful  toil  had  won ; 
And  many  secret  things  could  do ; 
So  verily  full  well  he  knew 
That  master  of  all  sorcery 

Who  wrought  the  thing  in  days  gone  by,  40 

And  doubted  not  that  some  great  spell 
It  guarded,  but  could  nowise  tell 
What  it  might  be.     So,  day  by  day. 
Still  would  he  loiter  on  the  way, 

And  watch  the  image  carefully,  4S 

Well  mocked  of  many  a  passer-by. 

And  on  a  day  he  stood  and  gazed 
Upon  the  slender  finger,  raised 


436  MORRIS 

Against  a  doubtful  cloudy  sky, 

Nigh  noontide ;  and  thought,  "  Certainly  50 

The  master  who  made  thee  so  fair 

By  wondrous  art,  had  not  stopped  there, 

But  made  thee  speak,  had  he  not  thought 

That  thereby  evil  might  be  brought 

Upon  his  spell."     But  as  he  spoke,  55 

From  out  a  cloud  the  noon  sun  broke 

With  watery  light  and  shadows  cold : 

Then  did  the  Scholar  well  behold 

How,  from  thg,t  finger  carved  to  tell 

Those  words,  a  short  black  shadow  feU  60 

Upon  a  certain  spot  of  ground, 

And  thereon,  looking  all  around 

And  seeing  none  heeding,  went  straightway 

Whereas  the  finger's  shadow  lay. 

And  with  his  knife  about  the  place  6$ 

A  little  circle  did  he  trace ; 

Then  home  he  turned  with  throbbing  head 

And  forthright  gat  him  to  his  bed, 

And  slept  until  the  night  was  late 

And  few  men  stirred  from  gate  to  gate.  70 

So  when  at  midnight  he  did  wake. 
Pickaxe  and  shovel  did  he  take, 
And,  going  to  that  now  silent  square, 
He  found  the  mark  his  knife  made  there, 
And  quietly  with  many  a  stroke  75 

The  pavement  of  the  place  he  broke : 
And  so,  the  stones  being  set  apart. 
He  'gan  to  dig  with  beating  heart. 
And  from  the  hole  in  haste  he  cast 
The  marl  and  gravel ;  till  at  last,  80 

Full  shoulder  high,  his  arms  were  jarred, 
For  suddenly  his  spade  struck  hard 
With  clang  against  some  metal  thing : 
And  soon  he  found  a  brazen  ring. 
All  green  with  rust,  twisted,  and  great  8s 

As  a  man's  wrist,  set  in  a  plate 


THE  WRITING  ON   THE  IMAGE  437 

Of  copper,  wrought  all  curiously 

With  words  unknown  though  plain  to  see, 

Spite  of  the  rust ;  and  flowering  trees, 

And  beasts,  and  wicked  images,  90 

Whereat  he  shuddered  :  for  he  knew 

What"  ill  things  he  might  come  to  do, 

If  he  should  still  take  part  with  these 

And  that  Great  Master  strive  to  please. 

But  small  time  had  he  then  to  stand  95 

And  think,  so  straight  he  set  his  hand 
Unto  the  ring,  but  where  he  thought 
That  by  main  strength  it  must  be  brought 
From  out  its  place,  lo  !  easily 

It  came  away,  and  let  him  see  100 

A  winding  staircase  wrought  of  stone. 
Wherethrough  the  new-come  wind  did  moan. 

Then  thought  he,  "  If  I  come  alive 
From  out  this  place  well  shall  I  thrive. 
For  I  may  look  here  certainly  105 

The  treasures  of  a  king  to  see, 
A  mightier  man  than  men  are  now. 
So  in  few  days  what  man  shall  know 
The  needy  Scholar,  seeing  me 

Great  in  the  place  where  great  men  be,  no 

The  richest  man  in  all  the  land  ? 
Beside  the  best  then  shall  I  stand, 
And  some  unheard-of  palace  have ; 
And  if  my  soul  I  may  not  save 

In  heaven,  yet  here  in  all  men's  eyes  115 

Will  I  make  some  sweet  paradise. 
With  marble  cloisters,  and  with  trees 
And  bubbling  wells,  and  fantasies, 
And  things  all  men  deem  strange  and  rare. 
And  crowds  of  women  kind  and  fair,  120 

That  I  may  see,  if  so  I  please, 
Laid  on  the  flowers,  or  mid  the  trees 
With  half-clad  bodies  wandering. 
There,  dwelling  happier  than  the  King, 


438  MORRIS 

What  lovely  days  may  yet  be  mine  !  125 

How  shall  I  live  with  love  and  wine, 

And  music,  till  I  come  to  die  ! 

And  then  — ■  Who  knoweth  certainly 

What  haps  to  us  when  we  are  dead  ? 

Truly  I  think  by  likelihead  130 

Nought  haps  to  us  of  good  or  bad ; 

Therefore  on  earth  will  I  be  glad 

A  short  space,  free  from  hope  or  fear ; 

And  fearless  will  I  enter  here 

And  meet  my  fate,  whatso  it  be."  13s 

Now  on  his  back  a  bag  had  he, 
To  bear  what  treasure  he  might  win, 
And  therewith  now  did  he  begin 
To  go  adown  the  winding  stair ; 

And  found  the  walls  all  painted  fair  140 

With  images  of  many  a  thing, 
Warrior  and  priest,  and  queen  and  king, 
But  nothing  knew  what  they  might  be. 
Which  things  full  clearly  could  he  see, 
For  lamps  were  hung  up  here  and  there  145 

Of  strange  device,  but  wrought  right  fair, 
And  pleasant  savor  came  from  them. 

At  last  a  curtain,  on  whose  hem 
Unknown  words  in  red  gold  were  writ, 
He  reached,  and  softly  raising  it  150 

Stepped  back,  for  now  did  he  behold 
A  goodly  hall  hung  round  with  gold. 
And  at  the  upper  end  could  see 
Sitting,  a  glorious  company : 

Therefore  he  trembled,  thinking  well  155 

They  were  no  men,  but  fiends  of  hell. 
But  while  he  waited,  trembling  sore. 
And  doubtful  of  his  late-learned  lore, 
A  cold  blast  of  the  outer  air 

Blew  out  the  lamps  upon  the  stair  160 

And  all  was  dark  behind  him :  then 


THE  WRITING  ON   THE  IMAGE  439 

Did  he  fear  less  to  face  those  men 

Than,  turning  round,  to  leave  them  there 

While  he  went  groping  up  the  stair. 

Yea,  since  he  heard  no  cry  or  call  165 

Or  any  speech  from  them  at  all, 

He  doubted  they  were  images 

Set  there  some  dying  king  to  please 

By  that  Great  Master  of  the  art ; 

Therefore  at  last  with  stouter  heart  170 

He  raised  the  cloth  and  entered  in 

In  hope  that  happy  life  to  win. 

And  drawing  nigher  did  behold 

That  these  were  bodies  dead  and  cold 

Attired  in  full  royal  guise,  17s 

And  wrought  by  art  in  such  a  wise 

That  living  they  all  seemed  to  be,       " 

Whose  very  eyes  he  well  could  see, 

That  now  beheld  not  foul  or  fair. 

Shining  as  though  alive  they  were.  180 

And  midmost  of  that  company 

An  ancient  king  that  man  could  see, 

A  mighty  man,  whose  beard  of  grey 

A  foot  over  his  gold  gown  lay ; 

And  next  beside  him  sat  his  queen  185 

Who  in  a  flowery  gown  of  green 

And  golden  mantle  well  was  clad, 

And  on  her  neck  a  collar  had 

Too  heavy  for  her  dainty  breast ; 

Her  loins  by  such  a  belt  were  prest  190 

That  whoso  in  his  treasury 

Held  that  alone,  a  king  might  be. 

On  either  side  of  these,  a  lord 

Stood  heedfuUy  before  the  board, 

And  in  their  hands  held  bread  and  wine  195 

For  service ;  behind  these  did  shine 

The  armor  of  the  guards,  and  then 

The  well-attired  serving-men. 

The  minstrels  clad  in  raiment  meet ; 


440  MORRIS 

And  over  against  the  royal  seat  200 

Was  hung  a  lamp,  although  no  flame 

Was  burning  there,  but  there  was  set 

Within  its  open  golden  fret 

A  huge  carbuncle,  red  and  bright ; 

Wheref rom  there  shone  forth  such  a  light  205 

That  great  hall  was  as  clear  by  it, 

As  though  by  wax  it  had  been  lit. 

As  some  great  church  at  Easter-tide. 

Now  set  a  little  way  aside, 
Six  paces  from  the  dais  stood  210 

An  image  made  of  brass  and  wood. 
In  likeness  of  a  full-armed  knight 
Who  pointed  'gainst  the  ruddy  light 
A  huge  shaft  ready  in  a  bow. 

Pondering  how  he  could  come  to  know  215 

What  all  these  marvellous  matters  meant, 
About  the  hall  the  Scholar  went. 
Trembling,  though  nothing  moved  as  yet ; 
And  for  awhile  did  he  forget 

The  longings  that  had  brought  him  there  2 

In  wondering  at  these  marvels  fair ; 
And  still  for  fear  he  doubted  much 
One  jewel  of  their  robes  to  touch. 

But  as  about  the  hall  he  passed 
He  grew  more  used  to  them  at  last,  225 

And  thought,  "  Swiftly  the  time  goes  by, 
And  now  no  doubt  the  day  draws  nigh ; 
Folk  will  be  stirring :  by  my  head 
A  fool  I  am  to  fear  the  dead. 
Who  have  seen  living  things  enow,  230 

Whose  very  names  no  man  can  know, 
Whose  shapes  brave  men  might  well  affright 
More  than  the  lion  in  the  night 
Wandering  for  food."    Therewith  he  drew 
Unto  those  royal  corpses  two,  ass 

That  on  dead  brows  still  wore  the  crown ; 


THE  WRITING  ON   THE  IMAGE  441 

And  midst  the  golden  cups  set  down 

The  rugged  wallet  from  his  back, 

Patched  of  strong  leather,  brown  and  black. 

Then,  opening  wide  its  mouth,  took  up  240 

From  ofif  the  board  a  golden  cup 

The  King's  dead  hand  was  laid  upon, 

Whose  unmoved  eyes  upon  him  shone 

And  recked  no  more  of  that  last  shame 

Than  if  he  were  the  beggar  lame,  245 

Who  in  old  days  was  wont  to  wait 

For  a  dog's  meal  beside  the  gate. 

Of  which  shame  nought  our  man  did  reck, 
But  laid  his  hand  upon  the  neck 

Of  the  slim  Queen,  and  thence  undid  250 

The  jeweled  collar,  that  straight  slid 
Down  her  smooth  bosom  to  the  board. 
And  when  these  matters  he  had  stored 
Safe  in  his  sack,  with  both  their  crowns, 
The  jeweled  parts  of  their  rich  gowns,  255 

Their  shoes  and  belts,  brooches  and  rings, 
And  cleared  the  board  of  all  rich  things, 
He  staggered  with  them  down  the  hall. 
But  as  he  went  his  eyes  did  fall 

Upon  a  wonderful  green  stone,  260 

Upon  the  hall-floor  laid  alone ; 
He  said,  '*  Though  thou  art  not  so  great 
To  add  by  much  unto  the  weight 
Of  this  my  sack  indeed,  yet  thou, 
Certes,  would  make  me  rich  enow,  265 

That  verily  with  thee  I  might 
Wage  one-half  of  the  world  to  fight 
The  other  half  of  it,  and  I 
The  lord  of  all  the  world  might  die ;  — 
I  will  not  leave  thee."    Therewithal  270 

He  knelt  down  midmost  of  the  hall,    ' 
Thinking  it  would  come  easily 
Into  his  hand ;  but  when  that  he 
Gat  hold  of  it,  full  fast  it  stack, 


442  MORRIS 

So  fuming,  down  he  laid  his  sack, 
And  with  both  hands  pulled  lustUy ; 
But  as  he  strained,  he  cast  his  eye 
Back  to  the  dais ;  |:here  he  saw 
The  bowman  image  'gin  to  draw 
The  mighty  bowstring  to  his  ear ; 
So,  shrieking  out  aloud  for  fear. 
Of  that  rich  stone  he  loosed  his  hold 
And  catching  up  his  bag  of  gold. 
Gat  to  his  feet :  but  ere  he  stood 
The  evil  thing  of  brass  and  wood 
Up  to  his  ear  the  notches  drew ; 
And  clanging,  forth  the  arrow  flew 
And  midmost  of  the  carbuncle, 
Clanging  again,  the  forked  barbs  fell. 
And  all  was  dark  as  pitch  straightway. 

So  there  until  the  judgment  day 
Shall  come  and  find  his  bones  laid  low, 
And  raise  them  up  for  weal  or  woe, 
This  man  must  bide ;  cast  down  he  lay 
While  all  his  past  life  day  by  day 
In  one  short  moment  he  could  see 
Drawn  out  before  him,  while  that  he 
In  terror  by  that  fatal  stone 
Was  laid,  and  scarcely  dared  to  moan. 
But  in  a  while  his  hope  returned. 
And  then,  though  nothing  he  discerned, 
He  gat  him  up  upon  his  feet. 
And  all  about  the  walls  he  beat 
To  find  some  token  of  the  door, 
But  never  could  he  find  it  more ; 
For  by  some  dreadful  sorcery 
AH  was  sealed  close  as  it  might  be. 
And  midst  the  marvels  of  that  hall 
This  Scholar  found  the  end  of  all. 

•     But  in  the  town  on  that  same  night, 
An  hour  before  the  dawn  of  light 


THE  WRITING  ON   THE  IMAGE  443 

Such  storm  upon  the  place  there  fell, 

That  not  the  oldest  man  could  tell 

Of  such  another :  and  thereby 

The  image  was  burnt  utterly,  315 

Being  stricken  from  the  clouds  above ; 

And  folk  deemed  that  same  bolt  did  move 

The  pavement  where  that  wretched  one 

Unto  his  foredoomed  fate  had  gone, 

Because  the  plate  was  set  again  ,  .^,-0 

Into  its  place,  and  the  great  rain 

Washed  the  earth  down,  and  sorcery 

Had  hid  the  place  where  it  did  lie. 

So  soon  the  stones  were  set  all  straight. 
But  yet  the  folk,  afraid  of  fate,  325 

Where  once  the  man  of  cornel  wood 
Through  many  a  year  of  bad  and  good 
Had  kept  his  place,  set  up  alone 
Great  Jove  himself,  cut  in  white  stone, 
But  thickly  overlaid  with  gold.  330 

"  Which,"  saith  my  tale,  "  you  may  behold 
Unto  this  day,  although  indeed 
Some  Lord  or  other,  being  in  need. 
Took  every  ounce  of  gold  away." 

But  now,  this  tale  in  some  past  day  33s 

Being  writ,  I  warrant  all  is  gone. 
Both  gold  and  weather-beaten  stone. 

Be  merry,  masters,  while  ye  may. 
For  men  much  quicker  pass  away. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  (1837-1909) 

With  Swinburne's  Atalanta  in  Calydon  (1865)  we  enter  upon  a 
new  phase  of  the  history  of  English  verse.  Although  this  poetic 
drama  was  modelled  on  the  structure  and  dignified  style  of  Greek 
tragedy,  its  choral  songs  were  of  a  swiftness,  richness,  and  romantic 
beauty  utterly  unlike  the  Greek  and  not  surpassed  by  any  lyric  verse 
that  England  had  yet  known,  —  not  even  by  that  of  Shelley,  with 


444  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

whom  the  enthusiastic  critics  at  once  compared  the  new  poet.     The  in- 
imitable Hymn  to  Artemis,  on  the  youth  of  the  year,  which  opens, 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces. 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripples  of  rain  — 

w^as  a  music  rapturous  and  strange,  intoxicating  with  rhythms  of' 
unfamiliar  cadence  and  with  alliterations  and  assonances  of  which 
even  Tennyson  had  never  dreamed.  Equally  unexpected  were  the 
majestic  measures  and  the  relentless  fatalism  of  the  chorus,  The 
Making  of  Man  (given  in  our  text).  From  this  time  on  English  poets 
have  been  busy  emiilating  Swinburne's  verbal  music  and  experiment- 
ing with  musical  innovations  of  their  own.  His  work  made  plain  the 
possibility  of  new  developments  in  verbal  melody  and  harmony. 

In  the  technique  of  verse,  especially  the  lyrical,  and  in  command  of 
diction  appropriate  to  every  note  in  the  poetical  gamut,  Swinburne 
has  never  been  surpassed.  His  beauty  and  splendor  of  phrase,  his 
vocabulary  of  vituperation  as  of  adoration,  his  imagery  of  motion 
and  color  and  sound  are  marvellous.  His  passion  for  physical  beauty 
is  extravagant ;  for  religious  and  political  freedom,  sincere  but  tur- 
bulent. The  attendant  danger  of  such  excellence  is  the  sacrifice  of 
sense  to  soimd  and  image.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  though 
Swinburne's  thought  may  be  manifold  and  startling,  its  roots  do  not 
go  deep;  frequently  the  exuberance  of  his  diction  chokes  whatever 
thought  was  growing.  He  captures  the  ear  and  the  imagination  but 
he  does  not  always  touch  the  heart. 

1837-1862.  —  Swinburne  was  born  in  London,  April  5,  1837,  of  a 
distinguished  north  of  England  family  allied  by  marriage  with  the 
nobility.  He  went  to  Eton,  and  thence  in  1857  to  Balliol  College, 
Oxford,  about  the  time  that  Morris  was  leaving  the  University  town. 
At  school  and  college  he  read  with  avidity  the  Greek  dramatists  and 
Shakespeare,  Shelley,  and  Victor  Hugo.  The  love  of  liberty  fed  by 
these  masters  was  especially  stimulated  by  the  last  mentioned,  whom 
he  admired  beyond  measure.  From  Hugo  and  other  living  French 
poets  he  had  already  derived  skill  in  poetic  forms  before  he  came  into 
intimate  relations  with  Rossetti  and  Morris.  His  first  volume  in 
verse,  published  in  i860,  the  year  he  left  college,  was  dedicated  to 
Rossetti.    But  the  two  dramatic  poems  which  give  the  book  its  title, 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  445 

The  Queen  Mother  and  Rosamond,  are  distinctly  influenced  by  the 
language  and  poetic  style  of  Shakespeare.  In  1862  he  was  living, 
as  we  have  elsewhere  said,  in  the  same  house  with  Rossetti,  Meredith, 
and  Rossetti's  brother  William. 

1862-1867.  —  In  1865  Swinburne  leaped  into  fame  with  his  Ata- 
l(mia  in  Calydon  and  a  romantic  drama,  Chastelard,  the  first  part  of  a 
trilogy  upon  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  Next  year  appeared  his  Poems 
and  Ballads,  the  frank  paganism  of  which  provoked  a  storm  of  criti- 
cism. But  some  of  the  work  in  that  collection  is  irreproachable  and 
exquisite:  The  Garden  of  Proserpine  has  the  spirit  of  classical  an- 
tiquity, the  sadness  and  the  timeless  beauty  of  its  creed ;  the  Hymn 
to  Proserpine  is  a  phase  of  pagan  philosophy  at  its  best ;  A  Christmas 
Carol  is  essentially  medieval  and  reverential ;  A  Match  has  all  the 
freshness  of  innocence ;  the  poem  To  Victor  Hugo  is  the  forerunner 
of  the  glorifications  of  liberty  which  were  to  characterize  much  of 
Swinburne's  future  lyric  verse.  In  general  the  Poems  and  Ballads 
draw  their  inspiration  from  the  French  poets,  but  the  manner  and 
the  medieval  color  and  detail  are  a  distinctive  product  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  school. 

1867-1874.  —  The  next  year,  1867,  stirred  by  the  movement  which 
aimed  to  complete  the  unification  of  Italy,  Swinburne  abandoned 
the  poetry  of  sensuous  appeal  and  poured  out  praises  of  the  Italian 
patriots,  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi,  In  1871,  still  following  the  lead  of 
his  master,  Victor  Hugo,  he  published  a  volume  entitled  Songs  before 
Sunrise^  devoted  primarily  to  the  struggle  which  ended  with  the 
annexation  of  the  Papal  States  to  the  Kingdom  of  Italy,  and  to  the 
sad  humiliation  of  France  in  the  Franco-German  war.  On  political 
subjects  the  finest  poem  is  the  lament  for  captive  Italy,  Super  Flumina 
Babylonis.  But  the  most  impressive  poems  in  the  volume  are  those 
in  which  the  poet  enunciates  his  religion  of  humanity,  such  as  Prelude, 
Hertha,  The  Pilgrims,  and  the  Hymn  of  Man.  His  doctrine  was  that 
of  Meredith,  of  which  we  have  already  spoken.  In  prose  he  had 
meanwhile  written  the  first  of  his  remarkable  studies  in  criticism,  an 
essay  on  William  Blake. 

1 874-1 909.  —  During  these  years  Swinburne  returned  to  fields 
which  earlier  he  had  begun  to  cultivate.  He  finished  his  trilogy  of 
Scottish  history  with  Bothwell  and  Mary  Stuart;  to  his  Greek  tragedy 
he  added  Erechtheus.  He  applied  himself  again  to  the  dramatic  poem 
and  produced  one  of  the  most  melodious,  passionate,  and  tragic 
romances  in  English  literature,  Tristram  of  Lyonesse.  Meanwhile  the 
influence  of  Hugo  had  been  increasing,  and  in  a  second  and  third  series 


446  SWINBURNE 

of  Poems  and  Ballads  he  poured  forth  splendid  song,  principally  of 
the  beauty  and  brevity  of  all  things  mortal,  of  his  passion  for  freedom 
and  his  love  of  the  sea  and  of  Uttle  children.  Besides  all  this  he  wrote 
numerous  prose  studies  in  literary  criticism,  usually  too  immoderate 
in  eulogy  or  in  condemnation.  With  his  death  in  1909  and  that  of 
Meredith  in  the  same  year  England  lost  the  last  of  her  elder  Victoi^an 
poets.  Their  lives  had  spanned  two-thirds  of  the  nineteenth  century 
and  almost  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth. 


THE  MAKING  OF  MAN 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears ; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven ;  5 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell ; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite ; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath ;  10 

Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand  is 

Fr.om  under  the  feet  of  the  years ; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea ; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth ; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth ;  20 

And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow,  25 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE  447 

With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 
The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife ;  30 

They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  filled  his  body  with  life ; 
Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labor  and  thought,  35 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin ; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight. 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days. 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night.  ,  40 

His  speech  is  a  burning  fire ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth ; 
In  his  heart  is  a  bHnd  desire. 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision ;  45 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 


THE   GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

<^^- " '' 
Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet ; 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams ; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world  of  streams.  8 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter,  w 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep ; 


448  SWINBURNE 

Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap : 
I  am  weary  of  days  -and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers, 
And  everything  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbor, 
And  far  from  eye  or  ear 

Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labor, 
Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer ; 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 

They  wot  not  who  make  thither ; 

But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice. 

No  heather-flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes, 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number. 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born ; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 
Comes  out  of  darkness  mom. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven. 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell. 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven. 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE  449 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 
His  beauty  clouds  and  closes ; 
And  well  though  love  reposes, 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well.  48 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal, 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 

Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands ; 

Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 

Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her, 

To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 

From  many  times  and  lands.  56 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 

She  waits  for  all  men  born ; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 

The  life  of  fruits  and  corn ; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her,  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn.  64 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings ; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither. 

And  all  disastrous  things ; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 

Red  strays  of  ruined  springs.  72 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure ; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow ; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure ; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
2  G 


450  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure.  80 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free. 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  life  lives  forever ; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never ; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea.  88 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light : 
Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken. 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 
Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal. 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal ; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 

In  an  eternal  night.  96 

7.  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE:   THE  YOUNGER  POETS 

While  Meredith,  Rossetti,  Morris,  and  Swinburne  were  in  the  full 
tide  of  their  song,  younger  generations  were  practising  notes  of  their 
own,  and  by  the  close  of  the  century  all  of  these  younger  or  later 
Victorian  poets  had  spoken  distinctively.  Of  them  we  can  mention 
here  only  a  few.    In  the  forties  were  born  henry  Austin  dobson, 

ANDREW    LANG,    ROBERT    BRIDGES,    EDMUND    GOSSE,    and   WILLIAM    E. 

HENLEY,  —  all  of  whom  began  the  publication  of  substantial  verse  in 
the  seventies.     In  the  fifties  were  born  Robert  louis  stevenson, 

JOHN    DAVIDSON,    WILLIAM    WATSON,    FRANCIS    THOMPSON,    and  A.   E. 

HOUSMAN,  most  of  whom  began  to  pubHsh  in  the  later  seventies  or 
in  the  eighties.     Between  1865  and  1869  rudyard  kipling,  william 

BUTLER  YEATS,  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS,  HENRY   NE^VBOLT,  and  LAWRENCE 

binyon  were  born,  —  a  group  that  overlaps  the  Victorian  age  proper 
and  the  succeeding  Georgian  era. 

It  is  by  no  means  easy  to  classify  these  poets  by  schools  or  move- 
ments or  to  generalize  in  respect  of  their  contributions  to  EngUsh 


THE   YOUNGER   VICTORIAN  POETS  451 

poetry.  They  are  too  various  to  admit  of  the  former  and  the  time  is 
not  yet  ripe  for  the  latter.  But  a  few  tentative  estimates  and  sugges- 
tions may  not  be  out  of  place.  To  begin  with,  we  must  note  that 
hardly  ever  before  in  the  history  of  English  literature  has  a  period  of 
equal  length  produced  so  much  poetry  of  a  uniformly  high  grade  as 
that  which  appeared  in  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
But  it  is  to  be  admitted  that  of  all  these  younger  poets  none,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  Rudyard  Kipling,  has  been  the  equal  of  the 
greater  Victorians,  of  Tennyson,  Browning,  Rossetti,  Morris,  or 
Swinburne.  Moreover,  much  of  their  poetry  has  been  bookish, 
"  literary,"  in  derivation  and  savor,  though  to  this  rule  Henley,  David- 
son, Stevenson,  Kipling,  and  Lawrence  Binyon  (of  whose  verse  a 
specimen  is  presented  under  Poems  of  the  Great  War,  below)  are 
exceptions.  Poetry  in  this  period  has  more  often  been  an  avocation 
than  a  vocation,  the  by-product  of  leisure  rather  than  the  avowed 
purpose  of  life  or  chief  means  of  earning  a  livelihood.  Physicians, 
journalists,  librarians,  philologists,  historians,  anthropologists,  novel- 
ists, and  clerks  have  indulged  in  poetic  composition  during  their 
leisure,  or  men  of  independent  income  and  sequestered  existence 
have  made  it  their  occupation.  Nevertheless  the  contributions  and 
innovations  of  the  younger  Victorians  have  been  abundant  and  sig- 
nificant. 

In  rhythm  the  experiments  and  discoveries  of  Rossetti  and  Swin- 
burne were  eagerly  and  continually  followed  up.  By  way  of  adapta- 
tion Dobson,  Lang,  Bridges,  Gosse,  Henley,  and  others  in  their  suite 
have  constructed  out  of  Old  French  forms  of  verse  graceful  and  ade- 
quate vehicles  for  social  humors  and  gentle  pathos ;  with  less  popu- 
lar success,  but  with  infinite  skill,  Robert  Bridges  has  reshaped  to 
English  use  many  a  classical  metre.  By  way  of  invention  Henley, 
Davidson,  and  others  have  varied  with  marked  success  the  received 
and  habitual  movements  of  rhythm  by  resorting  to  artistically  de- 
vised irregularities,  often  more  apparent  than  actual.  Sometimes, 
also,  they  have  discarded  standard  metres  and  rh5rme.  Their  method, 
growing  in  popularity  and  frequently  misunderstood  and  misapplied, 
has  become  a  distinguishing  feature  of  the  latest  "  New  Poetry," 
Thus  their  experiment  has  passed  into  a  revolt  not  yet  justified  by 
sanity.- — In  subject-matter  the  chief  addition,  since  the  resuscita- 
tion of.  eighteenth-century  and  classical  subjects  by  the  literary  poets 
of  the  forties,  has  come  from  poets  like  Henley,  Davidson,  and  Hous- 
man.  In  various  ways  they  have  elaborated  phases  of  the  religious 
philosophy  of  Swinburne  and  Meredith,  or  have  brought  the  realities 


452  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

of  contemporary  life  and  the  new  problems  of  industrial  justice  more 
vividly  than  ever  before  into  the  field  of  poetic  treatment,  thereby 
greatly  extending  that  field  and  renovating  the  conception  of  what 
subjects  have  an  affinity  for  poetic  interpretation.  New  material  has 
also  been  added  by  Yeats,  with  his  revival  of  the  mythology  and  other 
traditional  lore  of  Ireland,  and  by  Kipling,  with  his  realistic  poems  of 
civil  and  military  life  in  the  British  dependencies,  his  prophetic 
reading  of  political  events,  and  his  noble  interpretation  of  the  ideal 
of  the  higher  imperialism,  —  its  call  for  manliness  and  discipline  and 
its  burden  of  ministry  to  the  true  progress  of  the  race.  —  Of  mood  the 
varieties  are  manifold.  Here  only  four  can  be  mentioned :  the  remi- 
niscent and  sometimes  wistful  tone,  the  quaint  gayety  and  arch  wit 
of  the  writers  in  the  Old  French  forms  and  of  the  gentle  and  rarely 
distinctive  Robert  Louis  Stevenson ;  the  serene  and  dignified  aspect 
of  such  classicists  as  Robert  Bridges  and  Sir  William  Watson,  and  of 
Stephen  Phillips  at  his  best ;  the  spirit  of  flaming  revolt  with  which 
Henley,  Davidson,  and  others  confronted  industrial,  economic,  and 
social  conventions  which  they  regarded  as  antiquated  and  debasing ; 
and  the  all-absorbing  fervor  of  a  religious  mysticism  that  rises  above 
the  practical  consideration  of  economic  problems,  as  in  Francis 
Thompson's  Hound  of  Heaven.  —  In  manner  the  foremost  innovations 
have  been  a  revolt  against  the  conventional  poetic  diction  of  the  past, 
the  use  of  language  glowing  from  the  mint  of  colloquial  speech,  and 
the  impressionistic  handling  of  concrete  details  to  epitomize  or  sug- 
gest the  essential  in  character,  setting,  and  situation  (Henley,  David- 
son, Kipling,  and  others).  Nor  should  we  neglect  to  mention  the 
magical  and  dreamy  atmosphere,  the  lingering  cadences,  and  the 
graceful  diction  of  William  Butler  Yeats  and  his  followers  in  Anglo- 
Celtic  poetry. 


HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON   (1840-        ) 

Henry  Austin  Dobson  was  born  at  Plymouth,  January  18,  1840. 
Educated  partly  in  France,  at  an  early  and  impressionable  period 
he  learned  something  of  that  French  grace,  gayety,  and  precision 
which  distinguish  his  work  in  prose  and  verse.  At  sixteen  he  ob- 
tained a  clerkship  in  the  Board  of  Trade,  where  for  nearly  forty-five 
years  he  served  industriously,  rising  at  length  to  a  principalship  in 
the  harbor-department.     He  retired  in  1901. 

From  the  grind  and  monotony  of  office  work,  which  reduces  an 
ordinary  mind  to  sterility,  Mr.  Dobson  has  found  relief  in  the  composi- 


HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON  453 

tion  of  poems  which  for  fascinating  freshness  of  form,  delicacy  of 
phrase,  sweetness  of  spirit,  and  exquisiteness  of  point  and  finish  have 
rarely  been  surpassed.  His  mind  plays  happily  with  images  of  old- 
world  charm  or  present-day  vivacity.  Under  his  deft  touch  Dresden 
shepherdesses  come  to  life,  Watteau's  marquises  again  flaunt  their 
brocades,  old  love  letters  give  up  their  secrets ;  or,  with  sportive  humor 
or  exquisite  pathos,  he  casts  a  veil  of  loveliness  over  episodes  of  to-day, 
—  a  flirtation  in  the  train,  the  collapse  of  a  child  musician,  the  irony  of 
the  inscription  above  a  forgotten  grave.  Of  his  diction  one  critic  says, 
*'  The  epithet  is  usually  so  just  that  it  seems  to  have  come  into  being 
with  the  noun  it  qualifies,  the  metaphor  is  usually  so  appropriate 
that  it  leaves  one  in  doubt  as  to  whether  it  suggested  the  poem  or  the 
poem  suggested  it,  the  verb  is  seldom  in  excess  of  the  idea  it  would 
convey,  the  effect  is  that  '  som.ething  has  here  got  itself  uttered,'  and 
that  once  for  all."  His  "  old  world  "  is  the  world  of  the  English 
Restoration  and  the  period  of  Queen  Anne.  From  Horace,  from  the 
vers  de  societe  of  Matthew  Prior  (1664-17  21)  and  of  the  nineteenth- 
century  Praed  and  Locker,  as  well  as  from  the  quaint  verse-forms  of 
old  French  poetry  which  had  been  revived  by  Alfred  de  Musset 
(d.  1857)  and  Theodore  de  Banville  (d.  1891)  — the  forms  in  which 
Villon,  and  other  French  poets  of  the  fifteenth  and  early  sixteenth  cen- 
turies had  written  —  Mr.  Dobson  has  derived  something  of  his  manner. 
He  has,  indeed,  as  we  have  already  noted,  been  largely  instrumental  in 
introducing  into  English  poetry  the  old  French  triolet,  ballade,  rondel, 
rondeau,  and  villanelle.  His  Vignettes  in  Rhyme  (1873),  Proverbs 
in  Porcelain  (1877),  and  his  later  volumes,  and  an  article  in  the  Corn- 
hill  Magazine  of  July,  1877,  by  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  A  Plea  for  Cer- 
tain Exotic  Forms  of  Verse,  drew  attention  in  delightful  way  to  the 
possibilities  for  English  verse  that  lay  in  those  forms,  and  the  younger 
poets  at  once  set  themselves  to  compose  after  their  charming  patterns. 
Other  works  by  Mr.  Dobson  are  his  Old-World  Idylls  (1883)  and 
At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre  (1885).  His  Poems  on  Several  Occasions 
were  published  in  New  York  in  1889  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.),  and  his 
Collected  Poems  in  London,  1897  (9th  ed.  1914.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench, 
Triibner  &  Co.).  Everything  that  he  has  written  claims  the  reader's 
interest,  but  special  mention  may  be  made  of  Incognita  (an  episode 
in  the  train),  A  Dead  Letter,  The  Ballad  of  " Beau-Brocade,^'  A  Gentle- 
woman of  the  Old  School,  The  Old  Sedan  Chair,  Molly  Trefusis,  Before 
Sedan,  A  Nightingale  in  Kensington  Gardens,  and  In  After  Days. 
The  reader  will  soon  discover  that  Mr.  Dobson  has  not  sung  the  greater 
preoccupations  of  the  age:  majores  majora  sonent  is  the  motto  he 


454  DOBSON 

modestly  places  on  his  title  page ;  and,  thinking  of  the  years  in  the 
Board  of  Trade  —  which  remind  us  of  Charles  Lamb's  years  in  the 
India  House  —  he  says  of  himself 

Too  low  my  lot  for  lofty  deed ; 
I  pipe  but  fancies  on  a  reed. 

But  these  fancies  go  straight  to  the  heart.  They  are  the  inimitably 
lovely  and  whimsical  comments  of  a  most  gentle,  endearing,  and  wise 
spirit. 


GOOD-NIGHT,  BABETTEl 

"Si  vieillesse  pouvaitl" 

Scene.  —  A  small  neat  Room.    In  a  high  Voltaire  Chair  sits 
a  white-haired  old  Gentleman. 

Monsieur  Vieuxbois  Babette 

M.  Vieuxbois  {turning  quertdously). 

Day  of  my  life  !    Where  can  she  get  ? 
Babette  !    I  say  !    Babette  !  —  Babette  I 


Babette  {entering  hurriedly). 

Coming,  M'sieu' !     If  M'sieu'  speaks 
So  loud,  he  won't  be  well  for  weeks  ! 


M.  Vieuxbois. 
Where  have  you  been  ? 

Babette. 

Why,  M'sieu'  knows :  — 
April !  .  .  .  Ville  d'Avray !  .  .  .  Ma'am'selle  Rose  ! 

M.  Vieuxbois. 

Ah  !    I  am  old,  —  and  I  forget. 

Was  the  place  growing  green,  Babette  ? 


GOOD-NIGHT,   BABETTE!  455 

Babette. 

But  of  a  greenness  1  —  yes,  M'sieu' ! 

And  then  the  sky  so  blue  !  —  so  blue  !  10 

And  when  I  dropped  my  immortelle^ 

How  the  birds  sang  ! 

{Lifting  her  apron  to  her  eyes.) 
This  poor  Ma'am'selle  1 

M.    ViEUXBOIS. 

You're  a  good  girl,  Babette,  but  she,  — 

She  was  an  Angel,  verily. 

Sometimes  I  think  I  see  her  yet  is 

Stand  smiHng  by  the  cabinet ; 

And  once,  I  know,  she  peeped  and  laughed 

Betwixt  the  curtains.     .     .     . 

Where's  the  draught  ? 

{She  gives  him  a  cup.) 

Now  I  shall  sleep,  I  think,  Babette  ;  — 

Sing  me  your  Norman  chansonnette.  20 


Babette  {sh 

"  Once  at  the  Angelus 

{Ere  I  was  dead). 
Angels  all  glorious 

Came  to  my  Bed; 
Angels  in  blue  and  white  25 

Crowned  on  the  Head  J' 

M.  ViEUXBOIS  {drowsily). 

"  She  was  an  Angel  "...     "  Once  she  laughed  "... 
What,  was  I  dreaming  ? 

Where's  the  draught  ? 

Babette  {showing  the  empty  cup). 
The  draught,  M'sieu'  ? 


456  DOBSON 

M.    ViEUXBOIS. 

How  I  forget ! 
I  am  so  old  !    But  sing,  Babette  !  30 

Babette  {sings). 

"  One  was  the  Friend  I  left 

Stark  in  the  Snow; 
One  was  the  Wife  that  died 

Long,  —  long  ago; 
One  was  the  Love  I  lost    ...  3S 

How  coidd  she  know  f  ^^ 

M.  ViEUXBOIS  {murmuring). 

Ah,  Paul  !  .  .  .  old  Paul  !  .  .  .  Eulalie  too ! 
And  Rose  .  .  .  And  O  !  "  the  sky  so  blue  !  " 

Babette  {sings). 

"  One  had  my  Mother^ s  eyes^ 

Wistful  and  mild;  40 

One  had  my  Father^ s  face; 

One  was  a  Child: 
All  of  them  bent  to  me,  — 

Bent  down  and  smiled  I  " 

(He  is  asleep  !) 

M.  ViEUXBOIS  {almost  inaudibly). 

''  How  I  forget !  "  45 

"  I  am  so  old  !  "  .  .  .     "  Good-night,  Babette  !  " 

THE   CHILD-MUSICIAN 

He  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee. 
He  had  played  for  her  ladyship's  whim, 

Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy. 

And  the  poor  little  brain  would  swim.  j  a 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  457 

And  the  face  grew  peeked  and  eerie, 

And  the  large  eyes  strange  and  bright, 
And  they  said  —  too  late  —  "  He  is  weary  1 

He  shall  rest  for,  at  least,  to-night !  "  8 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were  waking, 

As  they  watched  in  the  silent  room. 
With  the  sound  of  a  strained  cord  breaking, 

A  something  snapped  in  the  gloom.  12 

'Twas  the  string  of  his  violoncello, 
And  they  heard  him  stir  in  his  bed :  — 

"  Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow, 
Kind  God  !  "  —  was  the  last  that  he  said.  16 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD   FRENCH  FORMS 

ROSE   CROSSED   THE   ROAD 

(Triolet) 

I  intended  an  Ode, 
And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 

It  began  a  la  mode, 

I  intended  an  Ode ; 

But  Rose  crossed  the  road 
In  her  latest  new  bonnet ; 

I  intended  an  Ode ; 
And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 

THE    WANDERER 

(Rondel) 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling,  — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore  ! 

We  see  him  stand  by  the  open  door. 
With  his  great  eyes  sad,  and  his  bosom  swelling. 


458  DOBSON 

He  makes  as  though  in  our  arms  repelling, 

He  fain  would  lie  as  he  lay  before ;  — 
Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling,  —  is 

The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore  ! 

Ah,  who  shall  help  us  from  over-spelling 

That  sweet  forgotten,  forbidden  lore  ! 

E'en  as  we  doubt  in  our  heart  once  more, 
With  a  rush  of  tears  to  our  eyeUds  welling,  20 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling. 

WITH    PIPE    AND    FLUTE 

{Rondeaii) 

With  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan 

Of  old  made  music  sweet  for  man ; 
And  wonder  hushed  the  warbling  bird. 
And  closer  drew  the  calm-eyed  herd,  —  25 

The  rolling  river  slowUer  ran. 

Ah  !  would,  —  ah  !  would,  a  Httle  span, 
Some  air  of  Arcady  could  fan 
This  age  of  ours,  too  seldom  stirred 

With  pipe  and  flute  !         30 

■I 

But  now  for  gold  we  plot  and  plan ; 

And  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan 
Apollo's  self  might  pass  unheard, 
Or  find  the  night-jar's  note  preferred ;  — 

Not  so  it  fared,  when  time  began,       ^  35 

With  pipe  and  flute  ! 

FOR   A   COPY    OF    THEOCRITUS 

{Villanelle) 

O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Theocritus  !    Pan's  pipe  was  thine,  — 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 


ANDREW  LANCf  459 

For  thee  the  scent  of  new-turned  mould,  40 

The  bee-hives,  and  the  murmuring  pine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  ! 

Thou  sang'st  the  simple  feasts  of  ©Id,  — 

The  beechen  bowl  made  glad  with  wine*.  . 

Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold.  4S 

Thou  bad'st  the  rustic  loves  be  told, — 
Thou  bad'st  the  tuneful  reeds  combine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  ! 

And  round  thee,  ever-laughing,  rolled 

The  blithe  and  blue  Sicilian  brine  .  .  /      5° 

Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

*  Alas  for  us  !     Our  songs  are  cold ; 

Our  Northern  suns  too  sadly  shine :  — 

O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 

Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold  !  55 

ANDREW  LANG   (1844-1912) 

It  has  been  said  that  Andrew  Lang,  the  most  versatile  and  one  of 
the  ablest  writers  of  his  day,  wrote  upon  so  many  subjects  that  he 
could  scarcely  miss  writing  well  on  something.  He  was  journalist,  his- 
torian, anthropologist,  philologist,  translator,  critic,  and  poet ;  he  wrote 
upon  such  diverse  subjects  as  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  and  the  customs 
of  savage  races,  The  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  and  Theocritus,  French 
romances  and  primitive  magic.  Burns  and  totems.  Homer,  dreams, 
ghosts,  and  fairy-tales.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  whatever  he  touched 
he  illuminated,  for  his  chief  gifts  were  originaHty  of  attack,  a  pene- 
trative critical  power,  a  rapier-like  style,  a  gift  for  unravelling  difficult 
tangles,  precision,  and  a  capacity  for  details.  Like  Mr.  Dobson,  he 
estimated  modestly  the  poetic  product  of  his  leisure  moments.  More 
serious  in  subject  and  manner  than  Mr.  Dobson,  less  whimsical  and 
graceful,  his  touch  was  always  light  and  quick.  A  certain  melan- 
choly suffuses  some  of  his  poetry,  but  his  verses  in  the  Old  French 
forms  have  the  gayety  of  their  kind.    His  first  volume  of  poems, 


460  LANG 

Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old  France  (1872),  contains  charming  experi- 
ments in  metrical  arrangement.  In  1880  appeared  Ballades  in  Blue 
China,  quaint  and  humorous,  and  reminiscent,  though  in  an  entirely 
different  spirit,  of  Mr.  Dobson's  Proverbs  in  Porcelain.,  Other  vol- 
umes of  verse  are  Helen  of  Troy  (1882),  Rhymes  a  la  Mode  (1884), 
Grass  of  Parnassus  (1888),  New  Collected  Rhymes  (1905).  From  the 
1884  voliune  is  taken  our  first  selection,  the  Ballade  of  Middle  Age, 
a  poem  that  well  represents  Lang's  skill  in  the  handling  of  French 
forms  and  the  genial  wisdom  of  his  view  of  life.  Maturity  pokes 
sympathetic  fun  at  the  over-seriousness  of  a  certain  mood  of  youth 
wherein  the  heart  pines  for  it  knows  not  what.  Well,  now  we  know 
*'  Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought."  In  the  eloquent  and  sen- 
tentious sonnet  on  Homer,  Lang  varies  the  usual  comparison  of  Homer's 
poetry  with  the  multitudinous  music  of  ocean  by  drawing  a  parallel 
between  the  Greek  epic  (its  unknown  authorship,  its  memories  of  a 
civilization  long  since  passed  away)  and  the  river  Nile  (its  source,  in 
Lang's  day  still  undiscovered,  and  its  waters  reflecting  the  ruins  of 
another  vanished  age).  The  comparison  is  apt  and  complete.  Of 
Lang's  prose  works  the  list  is  so  very  long  and  varied  that  we  cannot 
reproduce  it  here.  Of  most  interest  to  the  ordinary  reader  are  the 
series  of  fairy-tales  {Blue  Fairy  Tale  Book,  1889,  and  others  of  other 
*  colors  '),  the  translation  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  (both  in  col- 
laboration), his  Letters  to  Dead  Authors,  and  the  exciting  prose  ro- 
mance. The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  written  with  Rider  Haggard. 

Lang  was  born  at  Selkirk,  Scotland,  March  31,  1844.  He  was 
educated  at  Edinburgh  Academy,  St.  Andrews  University,  and  Balliol 
College,  Oxford.  In  1868  he  was  elected  fellow  of  Merton  College, 
Oxford;  in  1888  he  was  appointed  Lecturer  on  Natural  Religion  at 
his  Alma  Mater,  St.  Andrews.    He  died  in  191 2. 


BALLADE  OF  MIDDLE  AGE 

Our  youth  began  with  tears  and  sighs,  ^ 
With  seeking  what  we  could  not  find ;  ^ 
Our  verses  all  were  threnodies. 
In  elegiacs  still  we  whined ; 
Our  ears  were  deaf,  our  eyes  were  blind,  ■' 
We  sought  and  knew  not  what  we  sought. 
We  marvel,  now  we  look  behind : 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought !  : 


HOMER  461 

Oh,  foolish  youth,  untimely  wise  ! 

Oh,  phantoms  of  the  sickly  mind  !  10 

What  ?  not  content  with  seas  and  skies, 

With  rainy  clouds  and  southern  wind, 

With  common  cares  and  faces  kind. 

With  pains  and  joys  each  morning  brought  ? 

Ah,  old,  and  worn,  and  tired  we  find  15 

Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! 

Though  youth  '*  turns  spectre-thin  and  dies," 

To  mourn  for  youth  we're  not  inclined ; 

We  set  our  souls  on  salmon  flies. 

We  whistle  where  we  once  repined.  20 

Confound  the  woes  of  human-kind  ! 

By  Heaven  we're  "  well  deceived,"  I  wot; 

Who  hum,  contented  or  resigned, 

"  Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought !  " 

Envoy 

O  note  mecum,  worn  and  lined  25 

Our  faces  show,  but  that  is  naught ; 

Our  hearts  are  young  'neath  wrinkled  rind : 

Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! 

SONNET 

Homer 

Homer,  thy  song  men  liken  to  the  sea 

With  all  the  notes  of  music  in  its  tone, 

With  tides  that  wash  the  dim  dominion 
Of  Hades,  and  light  waves  that  laugh  in  glee 
Around  the  isles  enchanted ;  nay,  to  me  s 

Thy  verse  seems  as  the  River  of  source  unknown 

That  glasses  Egypt's  temples  overthrown 
In  his  sky-nurtured  stream,  eternally. 

No  wiser  we  than  men  of  heretofore 
To  find  thy  sacred  fountains  guarded  fast ;  10 


462  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Enough,  thy  flood  makes  green  our  human  shore, 

As  Nilus  Egypt,  rolUng  down  his  vast, 
His  fertile  flood,  that  murmurs  evermore 

Of  gods  dethroned,  and  empires  in  the  past. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES   (1844-         ) 

Robert  Bridges,  Poet  Laureate  since  1913,  was  born  October  23, 
1844.  He  gained  distinction  in  the  classics  at  Oxford,  travelled  on 
the  Continent  and  in  the  East,  practised  medicine  for  some  time,  and 
retired  to  private  life  in  1882,  devoting  himself  to  music,  metrics,  and 
poetry.  Classicist,  traveller,  physician,  skilled  musician,  learned 
scholar,  and  delightful  poet,  he  has  for  the  last  thirty-seven  years 
pursued  a  deliberately  chosen  manner  of  Hfe,  '  far  from  the  mad- 
ding crowd.'  He  has  not  sacrificed  his  days  and  years  in  the 
monotonous  mill  of  modern  machinery  and  commerce;  he  has  not 
been  content  with  the  otium  cum  dignitate  of  mere  scholarship.  Since 
the  age  of  thirty-eight,  like  Wordsworth  before  him,^he  has  lived  a 
life  wholly  given  over  to  the  study,  love,  and  making  of  "  beauteous 
things."  His  mind  has  not  been  fevered  by  courting  public  applause ; 
he  has  kept  to  his  own  quiet,  strong  way,  undeterred  by  criticism,  un- 
spoiled by  the  laureateship.  Standing  apart  from  the  throng  he 
has  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  some  small  part  of  the  throng  daily 
turn  aside  to  find  strength  and  spiritual  poise  in  the  restraint  and 
purity,  the  ease  and  precision,  the  reverence  and  quiet  of  his  verse. 
"  In  him  grace  and  gravity  have  been  betrothed  and  are  wedded  and 
have  not  been  divorced."  Our  specimens  illustrate  some  of  the  qual- 
ities of  his  verse.  If  the  reader  will  turn  to  other  poems.  Invitation 
to  the  Country  and  Reply,  There  is  a  Hill  beside  the  Silver  Thames,  Eros 
and  Psyche,  A  Hymn  of  Nature,  and  On  a  Dead  Child,  he  will  note 
still  further  a  gentle  sweetness  conjoined  with  something  both  of 
shyness  and  austerity ;  novelty  but  subtlety  of  metrical  effect,  rather 
than  the  dithyrambic  sensuousness  of  Swinburne  or  the  finesse  of 
Dobson  and  Lang ;  a  dehcacy  that  is  strength,  a  perfect  and  unaffected 
sincerity;  a  love  of  nature  and  an  unhurried,  meditative  regard  of 
life ;  a  note  of  self-dependence ;  and  a  certain  compression  of  thought 
that  challenges  attention  and  effort.  These  quahties  grow  upon  one 
as  the  poems  are  read  again  and  again  and  repeated  aloud.  There  is 
something  about  them  —  their  unostentatious  beauty  and  symmetry, 
and  the  inter-echoing  of  sound  and  sense  —  that  reminds  one  of  Mil- 
ton's early  poems  minus  the  classical  machinery  but  not  minus  the 


[ 


/  HAVE  LOVED  FLOWERS   THAT  FADE  463 

classical    equanimity.     For   Mr.    Bridges   has   learned    more    than 
mythology  from  the  Greeks. 

In  composing  verse  Mr.  Bridges  seems  to  pay  less  attention  to  the 
number  and  relative  position  of  accented  and  unaccented  syllables  — 
i.e.  to  "  feet  " —  than  to  the  number  of  stresses  to  the  line.  He  be- 
heves,  moreover,  as  did  Wordsworth,  that  poetry  should  follow  the 
rules  of  natural  speech.  Hence  his  verse  has  a  music  of  its  own,  — 
rich,  various,  and  pure.  The  student  will  be  interested  in  testmg 
the  truth  of  these  observations  in  the  lines  printed  below  and 
in  other  poems  by  this  author.  His  first  volume  appeared  in  1873 ; 
his  Prometheus,  "  a  mask  in  the  Greek  manner,"  in  1883  ;  Eros  and 
Psyche,  a  version  of  the  story  by  Apuleius,  in  1885  ;  various  poetical 
dramas,  188 5-1 889,  of  which  the  most  entertaining  to  the  student 
will  be  The  Return  of  Ulysses;  The  Growth  of  Love,  a  sonnet-sequence, 
in  1876  and  1889.  His  Poetical  Works  were  published  in  six  volumes, 
1 898-1 905.  The  one  volume  Oxford  edition  of  the  Poetical  Works , 
excluding  the  dramas,  is  the  most  convenient  (1914)- 

I  HAVE  LOVED  FLOWERS  THAT  FADE 

I  have  loved  flowers  that  fade, 

Within  whose  magic  tents 

Rich  hues  have  marriage  made 

With  sweet  unmemoried  scents : 

A  honeymoon  delight,  — 

A  joy  of  love  at  sight, 

That  ages  in  an  hour :  — 

My  song  be  like  a  flower  !  8 

I  have  loved  airs,  that  die 

Before  their  charm  is  writ 

Along  a  liquid  sky 

Trembling  to  welcome  it. 

Notes,  that  with  pulse  of  fire 

Proclaim  the  spirit's  desire, 

Then  die,  and  are  nowhere :  — 

My  song  be  like  an  air  !  16 

Die,  song,  die  like  a  breath, 
And  wither  as  a  bloom : 


464  BRIDGES 

Fear  not  a  flowery  death, 

Dread  not  an  airy  tomb  ! 

Fly  with  dehght,  fly  hence  ! 

'Twas  thine  love's  tender  sense 

To  feast ;  now  on  thy  bier 

Beauty  shall  shed  a  tear.  24 

I  LOVE  ALL  BEAUTEOUS  THINGS 

I  love  all  beauteous  things, 

I  seek  and  adore  them ; 
God  hath  no  better  praise, 
And  man  in  his  hasty  days 

Is  honored  for  them.  5 

I  too  will  something  make 

And  joy  in  the  making ; 
Altho'  to-morrow  it  seem 
Like  the  empty  words  of  a  dream 

Remembered  on  waking.  10 

LAUS  DEO 

Let  praise  devote  thy  work,  and  skill  employ 

Thy  whole  mind,  and  thy  heart  be  lost  in  joy. 

Well-doing  bringeth  pride,  this  constant  thought 

Humility,  that  thy  best  done  is  nought.  4 

Man  doeth  nothing  well,  be  it  great  or  small. 

Save  to  praise  God ;  but  that  hath  saved  all : 

For  God  requires  no  more  than  thou  hast  done, 

And  takes  thy  work  to  bless  it  for  his  own.  8 

WEEP  NOT  TO-DAY 

Weep  not  to-day :  why  should  this  sadness  be  ? 
Learn  in  present  fears 
To  o'ermaster  those  tears 
That  unhindered  conquer  thee.  4. 


I  EDMUND  GOSSE  465 

;  Think  on  thy  past  valor,  thy  future  praise : 

Up,  sad  heart,  nor  faint 
In  ungracious  complaint, 
Or  a  prayer  for  better  days.  8 

Daily  thy  life  shortens,  the  grave's  dark  peace 
Draweth  surely  nigh. 
When  good-night  is  good-by ; 
For  the  sleeping  shall  not  cease.  12 

Fight,  to  be  found  fighting :  nor  far  away 
Deem,  nor  strange  thy  doom. 
Like  this  sorrow  'twill  come, 
And  the  day  will  be  to-day.  16 

EDMUND  GOSSE   (1849-        ) 

Edmund  Gosse  was  born  in  London,  September  21,  1849,  and  was 
educated  in  Devonshire.  From  1867  to  1875  he  was  assistant  libra- 
rian at  the  British  Museum;  from  1875  to  1904,  translator  to  the 
Board  of  Trade ;  also,  from  1884  to  1890,  Lecturer  in  English  Liter- 
ature at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  has  written  many  books 
in  criticism  and  on  the  history  of  English  literature ;  by  his  transla- 
tions and  articles  he  has  introduced  English  readers  to  the  Scandina- 
vian literatures  and  in  return  has  received  honors  from  Norway, 
Sweden,  and  Denmark,  as  well  as  from  France ;  he  was  chief  literary 
adviser  in  the  preparation  of  the  tenth  and  eleventh  editions  of  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  and  to  the  ninth  and  subsequent  editions 
he  himself  contributed  numerous  articles.  All  this  involves  a  story 
not  only  of  persistent  industry  but  also  of  wide  and  profound  scholar- 
ship, ripe  judgment,  and  impeccable  taste.  But  like  that  other  scholar 
of  great  industry  and  voluminous  accomplishment,  Andrew  Lang, 
Mr.  Gosse  has  also  written  exquisite  poetry,  and"  the  sane,  unpreten- 
tious beauty  of  his  verse  has  added  greatly  to  the  admiration  in  which 
his  name  is  held.  His  poetic  style  is  simple  and  fluent,  —  generally 
of  an  ease  almost  colloquial;  but  its  effect  is  deepened  and  mel- 
lowed by  a  calm  and  modest  mysticism,  which,  as  in  our  selection, 
displays  his  *'  heart  in  unison  with  all  mankind,"  or,  as  in  The  Farm, 
teaches  him  the  happy  creed  "  that  all  fair  things  that  bloom  and  die. 
Have  conscious  life  as  well  as  I,"  and  that  all  beauty  ripens  "  but  to 
.  H 


466  GOSSE 

fulfil  its  own  delight."  In  other  poems,  to  be  sure,  are  notes  less 
idyllic  and  pastoral,  less  of  Devon  and  Devon  lanes;  for  instance, 
the  classical  in  The  Gifts  of  the  Muses,  and  the  vigorous  and 
heroic  in  the  spirited  ballad,  The  Cruise  of  the  Rover.  But  whatever 
may  be  the  variety  of  measure  or  mood,  there  is  always  present  a 
spirit  of  strong  restraint,  an  equilibrium  of  desire  and  deed.  This 
spiritual  serenity,  this  unadorned  sincerity  are  Wordsworthian  in  their 
healing  quality  and,  to  some  extent,  in  their  derivation.  Among 
his  publications  of  verse  are  On  Viol  and  Flute  (1873),  which  contains 
our  selection ;  King  Erik  (1876),  a  tragedy ;  New  Poems  (1879),  among 
which  are  The  Farm,  The  Gifts  of  the  Muses,  and  the  poignantly  affec- 
tionate address  To  my  Daughter  Teresa;  Firdausi  in  Exile  (1885) ; 
In  Russet  and  Silver  (1894) ;  Collected  Poems  (1896). 


LYING  IN  THE  GRASS 

Between  two  golden  tufts  of  summer  grass, 

I  see  the  world  through  hot  air  as  through  glass, 

And  by  my  face  sweet  lights  and  colors  pass.  3 

Before  me,  dark  against  the  fading  sky, 
I  watch  three  mowers  mowing,  as  I  lie : 
With  brawny  arms  they  sweep  in  harmony.  6 

Brown  English  faces  by  the  sun  burnt  red, 

Rich  glowing  color  on  bare  throat  and  head. 

My  heart  would  leap  to  watch  them,  were  I  dead  !  9 

And  in  my  strong  young  living  as  I  lie, 

I  seem  to  move  with  them  in  harmony  — 

A  fourth  is  mowing,  and  that  fourth  am  I.  12 

The  music  of  the  scythes  that  glide  and  leap. 

The  young  men  whistling  as  their  great  arms  sweep. 

And  all  the  perfume  and  sweet  sense  of  sleep,  15 

The  weary  butterflies  that  droop  their  wings. 

The  dreamy  nightingale  that  hardly  sings. 

And  all  the  lassitude  of  happy  things,  18 


LYING  IN   THE  GRASS  467 

Is  mingling  with  the  warm  and  pulsing  blood, 

That  gushes  through  my  veins  a  languid  flood, 

And  feeds  my  spirit  as  the  sap  a  bud.  21 

Behind  the  mowers,  on  the  amber  air, 

A  dark-green  beech-wood  rises,  still  and  fair, 

A  white  path  winding  up  it  like  a  staur.  24 

And  see  that  girl,  with  pitcher  on  her  head. 

And  clean  white  apron  on  her  gown  of  red,  — 

Her  even-song  of  love  is  but  half-said :  27 

She  waits  the  youngest  mower.     Now  he  goes ; 

Her  cheeks  are  redder  than  a  wild  blush-rose : 

They  climb  up  where  the  deepest  shadows  close.  30 

But  though  they  pass,  and  vanish,  I  am  there. 

I  watch  his  rough  hands  meet  beneath  her  hair. 

Their  broken  speech  sounds  sweet  to  me  like  prayer.  33 

Ah  !  now  the  rosy  children  come  to  play. 

And  romp  and  struggle  with  the  new-mown  hay ; 

Their  clear  high  voices  sound  from  far  away.  36 

They  know  so  little  why  the  world  is  sad. 

They  dig  themselves  warm  graves  and  yet  are  glad ; 

Their  muffled  screams  and  laughter  make  me  mad  !  39 

I  long  to  go  and  play  among  them  there ; 

Unseen,  like  wind,  to  take  them  by  the  hair. 

And  gently  make  their  rosy  cheeks  more  fair.  42 

The  happy  chfldren  !  full  of  frank  surprise. 
And  sudden  whims  and  innocent  ecstasies ; 
What  godhead  sparkles  from  their  liquid  eyes  !  45 

No  wonder  round  those  urns  of  mingled  clays 

That  Tuscan  potters  fashioned  in  old  days. 

And  colored  like  the  torrid  earth  ablaze,  48 


468  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

We  find  the  little  gods  and  loves  portrayed, 

Through  ancient  forests  wandering  undismayed, 

And  fluting  hymns  of  pleasure  unafraid.  Si 

They  knew,  as  I  do  now,  what  keen  delight 

A  strong  man  feels  to  watch  the  tender  flight 

Of  little  children  playing  in  his  sight ;  S4 

What  pure  sweet  pleasure,  and  what  sacred  love, 

Comes  drifting  down  upon  us  from  above, 

In  watching  how  their  limbs  and  features  move.  S7 

I  do  not  hunger  a  well-stored  mind. 
I  only  wish  to  live  my  life,  and  find 
My  heart  in  unison  with  all  mankind.  60 

My  life  is  like  the  single  dewy  star 

That  trembles  on  the  horizon's  primrose-bar,  — 

A  microcosm  where  all  things  living  are.  63 

And  if,  among  the  noiseless  grasses.  Death 

Should  come  behind  and  take  away  my  breath, 

I  should  not  rise  as  one  who  sorroweth ;  66 

For  I  should  pass ;  but  all  the  world  would  be 

Full  of  desire  and  young  delight  and  glee, 

And  why  should  men  be  sad  through  loss  of  me  ?  69 

The  light  is  flying ;  in  the  silver-blue 

The  young  moon  shines  from  her  bright  window  through : 

The  mowers  are  all  gone,  and  I  go  too.  72 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY   (1849-1903) 

Mr.  Gosse,  Mr.  Dobson,  and  Mr.  Bridges  have  enjoyed  the  com- 
paratively quiet  ways  of  scholarship.  William  E.  Henley  lived  a 
life  of  eruptions ;  his  was  the  fervid  career  of  the  militant  journalist, 


r 


WILLIAM   ERNEST  HENLEY  469 


the  combative  innovator,  the  daring  radical.  He  was  born  August 
23,  1849,  at  Gloucester.  In  his  earlier  years  he  suffered  much  from 
a  physical  affliction,  for  the  treatment  of  which  he  entered  the  Old 
Edinburgh  Infirmary  in  1874.  Here,  during  his  sojourn  of  twenty 
months,  he  was  visited  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  —  the  beginning 
of  one  of  the  most  famous  friendships  in  modern  letters.  Leaving 
the  hospital,  Henley  turned  to  journalism,  and  became  editor  in  turn  of 
London,  The  Magazine  of  Art,  and  The  Scots  Observer.  During  his 
editorship  Stevenson's  New  Arabian  Nights  appeared  in  the  first  of 
these  journals,  and  Mr.  Kipling's  Barrack-Room  Ballads  in  the  last, 
which  had  become  a  mouthpiece  of  the  new  imperialism.  To  the 
first  Henley  contributed  verses  of  his  own,  mostly  in  the  Old  French 
forms,  and  in  these  and  other  journals  were  printed  his  critical  essays 
on  art  and  literature,  —  always  outspoken  and  frequently  provocative 
of  the  literary  skirmishes  dear  to  his  belligerent  heart. 

A  vivid  originahty  and  a  rousing  energy  in  mood,  subject,  manner, 
and  metrical  form  characterize  Henley's  work.  In  mood  he  is  swift, 
passionate,  rebellious,  contentious,  and  always  vital.  He  was  the 
enemy  of  cant  and  futile  conventions.  Fear  and  the  oppression  of  cir- 
cumstances he  scorned.  His  was  the  will  to  live  the  spacious  life,  to 
master  one's  fate,  to  be  the  captain  of  one's  soul ;  and  that  will  he 
asserted  in  season  and  out.  This  is  the  essential  mood  of  his  poetry 
and  his  prose,  and  it  finds  its  finest  utterance  in  his  best  known  poem 
(1875),  the  first  of  those  we  have  printed  below.  His  subjects  were 
novel,  drawn  from  the  commonplace,  the  prosaic,  often  the  seemingly 
unpoetic;  but  into  such  subjects  he  entered  imaginatively,  making 
their  human  significance,  their  passion  and  pathos,  so  clear  and  telling 
that  their  poetry  was  acknowledged  of  all  men.  His  first  subjects 
were  hospital  scenes:  patients  and  nurses,  operations  and  clinics, 
casualty  wards  and  broken  limbs,  hopeless  cases  and  suicides,  and 
the  release  from  pain.  His  In  Hospital:  Rhymes  and  Rhythms  was 
the  harvest  of  his  confinement  to  the  Infirmary.  No  such  unflinching 
realism  had  been  known  in  English  poetry,  not  even  in  George  Crabbe's 
sketches  of  the  life  of  the  poor  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Later,  for  his  London  Voluntaries,  he  found  congenial  subjects  in  the 
crowded  squares  and  thoroughfares  of  the  great  city,  and  inter- 
preted their  scenes  with  e,  pictorial  veracity  and  an  imaginative 
wizardry  also  unprecedented  in  English  verse.  In  manner  Henley 
is  both  realistic  and  impressionistic.  He  seizes  deftly,  unerringly 
upon  two  or  three  concrete  details  of  character  or  scene,  presents 
them  swiftly  with  the  minimum  of  epithet  or  qualifying  phrase,  and 


470  HENLEY 

gives  you  the  impression  not  only  of  the  whole  scene,  or  personality, 
but  of  the  essential  spirit  as  well.  Such  verisimilitude  of  detail, 
such  revelationor  flash-light  of  spiritual  significance  were  innovations 
in  Henley's  day.  Since  his  time,  developed  as  they  have  been  by 
Mr.  Kipling,  by  our  own  Frank  Norris,  and  a  host  of  short-story 
writers,  they  have  become  a  literary  fashion  and  are  taught  in  our 
schools  and  colleges  as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  vivid  composition.  In 
metrical  form  Henley  was  also  radical.  The  unrhymed,  irregular 
rhythms  in  which  he  wrote  much  of  his  poetry  are  the  natural  vehicle 
for  his  impatient  temperament,  —  a  "  free  verse  "  which  in  its  superb 
swiftness  and  vigor  disproves  all  claim  of  kinship  advanced  by  the 
shufl^g  or  effeminate  free  verse  of  most  of  his  imitators.  Henley 
had  new  things  to  say  and  he  said  them  in  a  new  and  characteristic 
way.  His  Poems  (collected  edition)  are  published  by  David  Nutt 
and  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  (i  vol.,  1897).  For  further  reading  the 
following  are  suggested:  In  Hospit<il  (1873-1875) ;  the  Ballades  and 
the  rondel  What  is  to  Come,  under  Brie  ci  Brae  (1877-1888) ;  "  I 
am  the  Reaper  and  Or  ever  the  Knightly  Years  were  Gone,  under 
Echoes  (1888-1889) ;  London  Voluntaries  (1890-1892) ;  We  are  the 
Choice  of  the  Will  and  What  have  I  Done  for  You  (a  song  of  noble 
patriotism)  under  Rhymes  and  Rhythms  (1889-1892),  and  Epilogue 
(1897). 


I  AM   THE    CAPTAIN  OF   MY   SOUL 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  not  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade. 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 


IN  HOSPITAL  471 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate : 

I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul.  16 

IN  HOSPITAL 

I.   Enter  Patient 

The  morning  mists  still  haunt  the  stony  street ; 

The  northern  summer  air  is  shrill  and  cold ; 

And  lo,  the  Hospital,  grey,  quiet,  old. 

Where  Life  and  Death  like  friendly  chafferers  meet. 

Thro'  the  loud  spaciousness  and  draughty  gloom  s 

A  small,  strange  child  —  so  aged  and  yet  so  young  !  — 

Her  little  arm  besplinted  and  beslung. 

Precedes  me  gravely  to  the  waiting-room. 

I  limp  behind,  my  confidence  all  gone. 

The  grey-haired  soldier-porter  waves  me  on,  10 

And  on  I  crawl,  and  still  my  spirits  fail : 

A  tragic  meanness  seems  so  to  environ 

These  corridors  and  stairs  of  stone  and  iron, 

Cold,  naked,  clean  —  half -work  house  and  half -jail. 

11.   Waiting 

A  square,  squat  room  (a  cellar  on  promotion). 

Drab  to  the  soul,  drab  to  the  very  daylight ; 

Plasters  astray  in  unnatural-looking  tinware ; 

Scissors  and  lint  and  apothecary's  jars.  4 

Here,  on  a  bench  a  skeleton  would  writhe  from, 
.  Angry  and  sore,  I  wait  to  be  admitted : 
Wait  till  my  heart  is  lead  upon  my  stomach, 
While  at  their  ease  two  dressers  do  their  chores.  8 

One  has  a  probe  —  it  feels  to  me  a  crowbar. 

A  small  boy  sniffs  and  shudders  after  bluestone. 

A  poor  old  tramp  explains  his  poor  old  ulcers. 

Life  is  (I  think)  a  blunder  and  a  shame.     .  12 


472  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON   (1850-1894) 

Though  the  story  of  Stevenson's  life  and  literary  accomplishment 
belongs  rather  to  the  history  of  fiction  and  essay  than  to  that  of 
poetry,  yet  his  verses  for  children  are  so  admirable  that  no  apology  is 
needed  for  including  several  of  them  in  this  book.  Stevenson  was 
born  November  13,  1850.  He  was  a  delicate  child  and  ill-health 
dogged  him  until  his  death.  For  three  generations  the  Stevensons 
had  built  lighthouses,  but  after  some  attempts  to  interest  himself 
in  the  family  profession  Robert  Louis  obtained  permission  to  follow 
his  own  bent.  At  writing  he  toiled  without  stint.  In  a  letter  ad-  : 
dressed  in  1887  to  an  American  friend  he  wrote :  ''  I  imagine  nobody 
had  ever  such  pains  to  learn  a  trade  as  I  had  ;  but  I  slogged  at  it  day 
in  and  day  out ;  and  I  frankly  believe  (thanks  to  my  dire  industry) 
I  have  done  more  with  smaller  gifts  than  almost  any  man  of  letters 
in  the  world."  '  He  had  always  had  a  marvellous  desire  to  write,  — 
a  determination  that  was  the  best  sort  of  gift.  "All  through  my 
boyhood  and  youth  I  was  known  and  pointed  out  for  the  pattern  of 
an  idler ;  and  yet  I  was  always  busy  on  my  own  private  end,  which 
was  to  learn  to  write.  I  kept  always  two  books  in  my  pocket,  one  to 
read,  one  to  write  in  .  .  .  As  I  walked,  my  mind  was  busy  fitting 
what  I  saw  with  appropriate  words;  when  I  sat  by  the  roadside,  I 
would  either  read,  or  a  pencil  and  a  penny  version-book  would  be  in 
my  hand,  to  note  down  the  features  of  the  scene,  or  commemorate 
some  halting  stanzas.  Thus  I  lived  with  words.  And  what  I  thus 
wrote  was  for  no  ulterior  use ;  it  was  written  consciously  for  practice. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  I  wished  to  be  an  author  (although  I  wished 
that  too),  as  that  I  vowed  I  would  learn  to  write.  That  was  a  pro- 
ficiency that  tempted  me ;  and  I  practised  to  acquire  it,  as  men  learn 
to  whittle,  in  a  wager  with  myself/'  Even  after  he  had  attained 
mastery  in  his  art  the  task  of  composition  was  frequently  laborious ; 
he  usually  rewrote  his  prose  from  two  to  four  times,  and  he  tells  us 
how  he  would  spend  half  an  hour  —  or  more  —  on  a  clause.  The 
result  is  a  style  as  limpid,  various,  and  fluent  as  a  mountain-stream. 

His  first  books.  An  Inland  Voyage  (1878)  and  Travels  with  a  Don- 
key (1879),  are  records  of  vacations  in  Europe.  In  1879  he  came  to 
California,  and  his  experiences  in  travelling  steerage  and  second-class 
are  told  in  The  Amateur  Emigrant  and  Across  the  Plains.  He  arrived 
in  San  Francisco  sick  and  almost  penniless,  but  the  devoted  nursing 
of  Fanny  Van  de  Grift  Osbourne,  whom  he  married  in  1880,  saved  his 
life.     The  Silverado  Squatters,  a  souvenir  of  his  honeymoon  in  the 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  473 

Calif ornian  mountains,  was  published  in  1883,  while  he  was  trying 
to  gain  health  in  the  south  of  France.  Treasure  Island  (1883),  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  (1886),  and  Kidnapped  (1886) — romances 
respectively  of  pirates,  double-personality,  and  Scottish  adventurers 
—  brought  him  the  full  measure  of  fame.  In  1888,  still  in  the  pursuit 
of  health,  he  began  a  long  voyage  in  the  Pacific,  finally  settling  at 
Samoa,  where  he  built  himself  the  famous  home,  Vailima.  Here  he 
lived  the  patriarchal  fife  of  an  island  chieftain,  cultivated  a  plan- 
tation, enjoyed  a  greater  vigor  than  he  had  ever  known,  wrote  assidu- 
ously, and  died,  from  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  December  3,  1894.  The 
following  day  six  Samoan  natives  who  acknowledged  Stevenson  as 
their  chief  carried  his  body  to  the  top  of  a  mountain  above  Vailima, 
overlooking  the  Pacific.  There  is  the  tomb  of  the  "  most  beloved  " 
and  inscribed  upon  it  are  the  lines  of  his  Requiem ^  a  memorial  of  his 
brave  spirit  and  many  wanderings. 

Into  all  his  works  Stevenson  has  breathed  the  captivating  charm  of 
his  personality.  A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses  (Longmans  and  Co., 
1885 ;  Scribner's  Sons,  1905)  is  so  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  the  most 
simple  and  winsome  kind  of  poetry  —  the  vivid  imaginings  of  a  child 
intent  on  its  play  —  that  all  readers  are  ever  anew  and  deeply  indebted 
to  the  author.  The  pleasure  which  children  take  in  this  Garden  is 
more  than  matched  by  the  keen  delight  with  which  men  and  women, 
entering  again,  through  its  verse,  into  the  child's  most  real  unrealities, 
for  a  while  escape  from  an  adult  world  of  unenlightened  facts.  But 
something  more  than  an  escape  may  be  effected.  The  make-believes 
of  the  Child's  Garden  are  naive  transformations  of  the  commonplace, 
not  mere  retreats  from  it.  And  so  it  may  happen  that  the  grown-up 
who  enjoys  these  make-beUeves  may  be  led  to  see  in  the  common- 
place happenings  of  his  own  life  meanings  both  rich  and  strange,  until 
to  him,  too,  as  to  the  child  in  the  Garden,  there  comes  the  Happy 
Thought, 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

From  another  volume  of  poems.  Underwoods  (Longmans  and  Co., 
1887),  are  taken  The  Sick  Child  and  the  Requiem.  Among  other 
well  known  verses  in  the  same  collection  are  A  Song  of  the  Road,  It 
is  the  Season  Now  to  Go,  and  A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock.  In  1890  appeared 
Ballads,  written  with  more  care  than  his  other  poems  —  most  of 
which  had  been  asides  of  the  moment  —  and  containing  matter  of 
spirited  strength  and  gentle  pathos,  as  in  Christmas  at  Sea. 


474  STEVENSON 

FROM  A  CHILD'S   GARDEN  OF  VERSES 

I.  Travel 

I  should  like  to  rise  and  go 

Where  the  golden  apples  grow ;  — 

Where  below  another  sky 

Parrot  islands  anchored  lie, 

And,  watched  by  cockatoos  and  goats, 

Lonely  Crusoes  building  boats ;  — 

Where  in  sunshine  reaching  out 

Eastern  cities,  miles  about, 

Are  with  mosque  and  minaret 

Among  sandy  gardens  set. 

And  the  rich  goods  from  near  and  far 

Hang  for  sale  in  the  bazaar ;  — 

Where  the  Great  Wall  round  China  goes, 

And  on  one  side  the  desert  blows, 

And  with  bell  and  voice  and  drum,  is 

Cities  on  the  other  hum ;  — 

Where  are  forests,  hot-as  fire. 

Wide  as  England,  tall  as  a  spire, 

Full  of  apes  and  cocoa-nuts 

And  the  negro  hunters'  huts ;  — 

Where  the  knotty  crocodile 

Lies  and  blinks  in  the  Nile, 

And  the  red  flamingo  flies 

Hunting  fish  before  his  eyes ;  — 

Where  in  jungles,  near  and  far,  25' 

Man-devouring  tigers  are, 

Lying  close  and  giving  ear 

Lest  the  hunt  be  drawing  near, 

Or  a  comer-by  be  seen 

Swinging  in  a  palanquin ;  —  30' 

Where  among  the  desert  sands 

Some  deserted  city  stands, 

All  its  children,  sweep  and  prince, 

Grown  to  manhood  ages  since. 

Not  a  foot  in  street  or  house,  35 


A   CHILtS  GARDEN  OF    VERSES  475 

Not  a  stir  of  child  or  mouse, 

And  when  kindly  falls  the  night, 

In  all  the  town  no  spark  of  light. 

There  I'll  come  when  I'm  a  man 

With  a  camel  caravan ;  40 

Light  a  fire  in  the  gloom 

Of  some  dusty  dining-room ; 

See  the  pictures  on  the  walls, 

Heroes,  fights,  and  festivals ; 

And  in  a  corner  find  the  toys  45 

Of  the  old  Egyptian  boys. 

i      II.  The  Land  of  Counterpane 

When  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed, 

I  had  two  pillows  at  my  head, 

And  all  my  toys  beside  me  lay 

To  keep  me  happy  all  the  day.  4 

And  sometimes  fof  an  hour  or  so 

I  watched  my  leaden  soldiers  go, 

With  different  uniforms  and  drills, 

Among  the  bed-clothes,  through  the  hills ;  8 

And  sometimes  sent  my  ships  in  fleets 

All  up  and  down  among  the  sheets ; 

Or  brought  my  trees  and  houses  out, 

And  planted  cities  all  about.  12 

I  was  the  giant  great  and  still 

That  sits  upon  the  pillow-hill, 

And  sees  before  him,  dale  and  plain, 

The  pleasant  land  of  counterpane.  16 

III.  The  Wind 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 
And  blow  the  birds  about  the  sky ; 
And  all  around  I  heard  you  pass, 


476  STEVENSON 

Like  ladies'  skirts  across  the  grass  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song  !  6 

I  saw  the  different  things  you  did, 

But  always  you  yourself  you  hid. 

I  felt  you  push,  I  heard  you  call, 

I  could  not  see  yourself  at  all  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song  ! 

O  you  that  are  so  strong  and  cold, 
O  blower,  are  you  young  or  old  ? 
Are  you  a  beast  of  field  and  tree, 
Or  just  a  stronger  child  than  me  ? 

O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 

O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song  !  18 

IV.   The  Unseen  Playmate 

When  children  are  playing  alone  on  the  green. 
In  comes  the  playmate  that  never  was  seen. 
When  children  are  happy  and  lonely  and  good, 
The  Friend  of  the  Children  comes  out  of  the  wood. 

Nobody  heard  him  and  nobody  saw, 

His  is  a  picture  you  never  could  draw, 

But  he's  sure  to  be  present,  abroad  or  at  hom^., 

When  children  are  happy  and  playing  alone. 

He  lies  in  the  laurels,  he  runs  on  the  grass, 
He  sings  when  you  tinkle  the  musical  glass ; 
Whene'er  you  are  happy  and  cannot  tell  why. 
The  Friend  of  the  Children  is  sure  to  be  by  ! 

He  loves  to  be  little,  he  hates  to  be  big, 

'Tis  he  that  inhabits  the  caves  that  you  dig ; 

'Tis  he  when  you  play  with  your  soldiers  of  tin 

That  sides  with  the  Frenchmen  and  never  can  win.  16 


A   CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF   VERSES  477 

'Tis  he,  when  at  night  you  go  ofif  to  your  bed, 

Bids  you  go  to  your  sleep  and  not  trouble  your  head ; 

For  wherever  they're  lying,  in  cupboard  or  shelf, 

Tis  he  will  take  care  of  your  playthings  himself  !  20 

V.  Armies  in  the  Fire 

The  lamps  now  ghtter  down  the  street : 

Faintly  sound  the  falling  feet ; 

And  the  blue  even  slowly  falls 

About  the  garden  trees  and  walls.  4 

Now  in  the  faUing  of  the  gloom 

The  red  fire  paints  the  empty  room : 

And  warmly  on  the  roof  it  looks. 

And  flickers  on  the  backs  of  books.  8 

Armies  march  by  tower  and  spire 

Of  cities  blazing,  in  the  fire ;  — 

Till  as  I  gaze  with  staring  eyes. 

The  armies  fade,  the  lustre  dies.  12 

Then  once  again  the  glow  returns ; 

Again  the  phantom  city  burns ; 

And  down  the  red-hot  valley,  lo  ! 

The  phantom  armies  marching  go  !  i6 

BHnking  embers,  tell  me  true 

Where  are  those  armies  marching  to,  . 

And  what  the  burning  city  is 

That  crumbles  in  your  furnaces  !  20 

VI.  Historical  Associations 

Dear  Uncle  Jim,  this  garden  ground 

That  now  you  smoke  your  pipe  around, 

Has  seen  immortal  actions  done 

And  vaUant  battles  lost  and  won.  4 


47S  STEVENSON 

Here  we  had  best  on  tip-toe  tread, 
While  I  for  safety  march  ahead, 
For  this  is  that  enchanted  ground 
Where  all  who  loiter  slumber  sound. 

Here  is  the  sea,  here  is  the  sand. 
Here  is  simple  Shepherd's  Land, 
Here  are  the  fairy  hollyhocks. 
And  there  are  All  Baba's  rocks. 

But  yonder,  see  !  apart  and  high. 

Frozen  Siberia  Ues ;  where  I, 

With  Robert  Bruce  and  WiUiam  Tell, 

Was  bound  by  an  enchanter's  spell.  i6 

THE  SICK  CHH^D 

Child 
O  mother,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow  I 

0  mother,  mother,  where  am  I  now  ? 
Why  is  the  room  so  gaunt  and  great  ? 
Why  am  I  lying  awake  so  late  ? 

Mother 
Fear  not  at  all :  the  night  is  still. 
Nothing  is  here  that  means  you  ill. 
Nothing  but  lamps  the  whole  town  through, 
And  never  a  child  awake  but  you. 

Child 
Mother,  mother,  speak  low  in  my  ear, 
Some  of  the  things  are  so  great  and  near, 
Some  are  so  small  and  far  away, 

1  have  a  fear  that  I  cannot  say. 
.   What  have  I  done,  and  what  do  I  fear. 

And  why  are  you  crying,  mother  dear  ? 

Mother 
Out  in  the  city,  sounds  begin, 
Thank  the  kind  God,  the  carts  come  in  ! 


w 


REQUIEM  479 

An  hour  or  two  more,  and  God  is  so  kind, 

The  day  shall  be  blue  in  the  window-blind, 

Then  shall  my  child  go  sweetly  asleep, 

And  dream  of  the  birds  and  the  hills  of  sleep.  20 

REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  Ue. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die. 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will.  4 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor^  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill,  8 

JOHN  DAVIDSON   (1857-1909) 

John  Davidson,  poet,  playwright,  and  novelist,  was  born  in  Ren- 
frewshire, Scotland,  April  11,  1857.  His  life  was  a  struggle  with 
poverty.  At  thirteen  he  was  working  in  a  sugar  factory;  at  fifteen 
he  was  a  pupil-teacher  in  his  old  school  at  Greenock ;  at  nineteen  he 
studied  for  one  session  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  After  that 
he  taught  in  several  Scottish  schools  until  he  was  thirty-three,  except 
for  an  interval  when  he  was  a  clerk  in  a  Glasgow  thread  firm.  Each 
day  of  those  years  witnessed  a  dispiriting  duel  between  the  character 
of  the  man,  imaginative  and  sensitive,  and  the  dreary  routine  of  his 
duties.  Between  1886  and  1889  he  published  several  poetical  plays, 
of  which  Bruce  is  probably  the  most  poetically  conceived  and  vigor- 
ous. They  all  display  inventive  power,  but  they  lack  technique. 
Undaunted,  he  gave  up  school-teaching  and  resolved  to  devote  all  his 
effort  to  writing.  "  Instead  of  dying  daily  here,"  he  said,  "  the 
worst  is  dying  once  of  want."  He  went  up  to  London,  wrote,  pub- 
lished, and  starved.  In  1890  appeared  his  prose  romance,  Perfervid, 
a  work  of  genius,  which  was  not  appreciated  then  and  has  not  yet  come 
into  its  own.  There  followed  in  1891  a  volume  of  reaUstic  poems, 
In  a  Music  Hall,  but  the  poet  first  achieved  recognition  in  1893  with 
a  Uttle  book  of  verse,  entitled  Fleet  Street  Eclogues,  in  which  debate  — 
his  real  interest  —  is  pursued  without  that  necessity  for  plot  which 
had  irked  him  in  his  dramas.     Ballads  and  Songs  (1894),  Second 


b 


480  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Series  of  Fleet  Street  Eclogues  (1895),  New  Ballads  (1896)  —called 
by  one  critic  "  parables  in  quatrains,"  and  The  Last  Ballad,  etc. 
(1898)  brought  him  admiration  and  professional  but  not  financial 
reward.  Several  poetic  dramas  followed,  none  successful;  finally 
another  volume  of  lyrical  verse,  Holiday  and  Other  Poems  (1903). 
In  spite  of  a  small  pension  from  the  crown  his  struggle  for  a  livelihood 
was  disheartening.  He  also  feared  a  death  from  cancer.  On  March 
23, 1909,  he  disappeared.     Months  later  his  body  was  found  in  the  sea. 

These  facts,  few  as  they  are,  throw  light  upon  the  character  of 
Davidson's  poetry.  In  the  brave  but  hopeless  conflict  with  grinding 
poverty  Ues  the  root  of  the  question  he  puts  to  modern  life :  How 
to-day  shall  a  man,  dependent  upon  his  unaided  effort  for  meat  and 
drink,  know  beauty  and  enjoy  it  and  be  free  ?  How  may  he  call  his 
soul  his  own  in  this  age  of  omnipresent  machinery  for  the  making 
of  things,  and  omnipotent  desire  —  and  unceasing  scramble  —  to 
possess  things?  The  sacrifice  of  the  workman's  soul  in  the  struggle 
to  exist  is  Davidson's  recurring  theme.  At  times  the  problem  wraps 
the  poet  in  black  despair.  But  again  and  again,  out  of  the  discordant 
and  confusing  tumult  of  experience  there  rises  clear  an  old  and  im- 
perishable note :  he  hears  and,  like  Henley,  sings  of  courage  and  adven- 
ture, —  "to  brave  and  to  know  the  unknown."  Such  is  the  burden 
of  our  second  selection. 

Davidson  annexed  new  territory  to  the  realm  of  poetry.  Glas- 
gow and  London  workmen,  rivets  and  steam-whistles,  furnaces 
and  anvils,  looms  and  power-wheels,  trains  and  suburbs,  the  commer- 
cial and  mechanical  Juggernaut,  the  lives  crushed  out :  these  are  the 
material  of  his  problem.  Fired  by  a  sense  of  injustice  he  seeks  to 
solve  the  problem  by  processes  of  reason.  But  it  is  his  imagination 
that  is  fired.  Impatient  and  masterful,  he  is  not  systematic,  not 
profoundly  analytic.  He  trusts  his  poetic  intuition  of  the  deeper 
values  and  verities,  and  his  utterance  of  them  is  volcanic.  Much  good 
poetry  on  these  subjects  is  to  be  found  in  his  eclogues ;  but  better  in 
occasional  lyrics  such  as  The  Price,  Waiting,  The  Aristocrat,  A  Song 
of  the  Road;  the  best  of  all  in  the  ballads,  A  Workman,  A  Poet  Born, 
An  Artisfs  Wife,  A  Woman  and  her  Sons,  —  each  too  long  to  be  in- 
cluded among  our  selections. 

Rebellious  and  at  times  despondent,  Davidson  is  by  no  means  with- 
out a  reasoned  philosophy  of  God  and  his  creation.  That  philosophy 
finds  its  noblest  expression  in  the  selection  which  we  have  entitled 
"  God  is  an  Artist,  not  an  Artisan."  He  tells  us  that  God  works  not 
like  a  mechanic,  pulling  a  lever  and  turning  out  a  product  finished  be- 


GOD  IS  AN  ARTIST,   NOT  AN   ARTISAN  481 

yond  improvement  from  the  first.  God  works  like  an  architect  or  a 
sculptor:  He  made  the  world  gradually,  wondrously,  lovingly,  till, 
alas,  life  began  to  feed  on  life !  Then  He  made  man  with  a  mind  to 
comprehend  the  wondrous  scheme,  to  control  the  violence  of  unthink- 
ing creatures,  to  mould  God's  work  with  reason  and  with  love  "  to 
some  accomplished  end  "  :  to  be  the  prince  of  all  and  artist  of  man's 
own  godlike  destiny.  Of  man  so  toiling,  of  the  many  contradictions 
between  his  strength  and  his  weakness,  but  the  nobility  of  his  mission, 
we  find  other  expressions  in  the  poems  Earth  to  Earth,  Artist  atid  Vo- 
tary, and  A  Ballad  of  Heaven.  Through  all  Davidson's  work  run 
Shakespearian  strains  of  fancy  wild,  and  love  of  the  evanescent  as- 
pects of  meadow  and  cloud  and  spring  breezes,  for  which  the  soul 
bound  in  the  city  longs.  Drollery  he  has,  too,  and  pregnant  humor. 
But  for  him  these  dearer  delights  and  lighter  graces  are  not  a  refuge 
from  a  life  outworn :  man's  love  of  them  is  the  citadel  of  his  revolt 
against  a  world  that  would  crush  them. 

Davidson's  American  publishers  are  the  John  Lane  Company, 
New  York. 

GOD   IS  AN  ARTIST,  NOT  AN  ARTISAN 

Basil:  .  .  .  God  has  no  machine 
For  punching  perfect  worlds  from  cakes  of  chaos.   .   . 
He  works  but  as  He  can ; 
God  is  an  artist,  not  an  artisan. 

Darkly  imagining,  5 

With  ice  and  fire  and  storm, 
With  floods  and  earthquake-shocks 
He  gave  our  sphere  its  form. 
The  meaning  of  His  work 

Grew  as  He  wrought.  10 

In  creases  of  the  mud,  in  cooling  rocks 
He  saw  ideas  lurk  — 
Mountains  and  stresims. 
Of  life  the  passionate  thought 

Haunted  His  dreams.  15 

At  last  He  tried  to  do 
The  thing  He  dreamt. 
With  plasm  in  throbbing  motes, 
With  moss  and  ferns  and  giant  beasts  unkempt 
21 


i 


482  DAVIDSON 

He  febored  long,  until  at  length  He  seemed  20 

To  breathe  out  being.     Flowers  and  forests  grew 

Like  magic  at  His  word :  mountain  and  plain, 

Jungle  and  sea  and  waste, 

With  miracles  of  strength  and  beauty  teemed : 

In  every  drop  and  every  grain,  25 

Each  speck  and  stain. 

Was  some  new  being  placed, 

Minute  or  viewless.     Then  was  He  aghast, 

And  all  His  passion  to  create  grew  tame ; 

For  life  battened  on  life.     He  thought  30 

To  shatter  all ;  but  in  a  space 

He  loved  His  work  again  and  sought 

To  crown  it  with  a  sovereign  grace ; 

And  soon  the  great  idea  came. 

"  If  I  could  give  my  work  a  mind ;  35 

If  I  could  make  it  comprehend 

How  wondrously  it  is  designed ; 

Enable  it  with  head  and  heart  • 

To  mould  itself  to  some  accomplished  end  — 

That  were  indeed  transcendent  art."  .   40 

Trembling  with  ecstasy  He  then  made  man. 

To  be  the  world's  atonement  and  its  prince. 

And  in  the  world  God  has  done  nothing  since ; 

He  keeps  not  tinkering  at  a  finished  plan ; 

He  is  an  artist,  not  an  artisan.   .   .  45 

Sandy:    If  God  is  art  and  art  is  God, 
I  fear  I  don't  believe  in  God. 

Basil:    That  matters  not  since  this  is  true  — ' 

Hear  me  before  you  go  away. 

And  turn  this  over  in  your  heart  — ■  .so 

That  God  Himself  believes  in  you. 

THE  UNKNOWN 

To  brave  and  to  know  the  unknown 

Is  the  high  world's  motive  and  mark, 
Though  the  way  with  snares  be  strewn.  3 


SIR  WILLIAM  WATSON  483 

The  Earth  itself  alone 

Wheels  through  the  light  and  the  dark 
Onward  to  meet  the  unknown,  6 

Each  soul,  upright  or  prone, 

While  the  owl  sings  or  the  lark, 
Must  pass  where  the  bones  are  strewn.  9 

Power  on  the  loftiest  throne 

Can  fashion  no  certain  ark 
That  shall  stem  and  outride  the  unknown.  12 

Beauty  must  doff  her  zone, 

Strength  trudge  unarmed  and  stark, 
Though  the  way  with  eyes  be  strewn.  15 

This  only  can  atone. 

The  high  world's  motive  and  mark, 
To  brave  and  to  know  the  unknown  18 

Though  the  way  with  fire  be  strewn. 

SIR  WILLIAM  WATSON  (1858-  /    ) 

Sir  William  Watson's  life  has  been  one  of  comparative  ease  and 
quiet,  save  for  occasional  fiery  utterances  on  political  questions  and 
a  temporary  estrangement  from  the  public  because  of  his  opposition 
to  the  Boer  War  (see  his  For  England:  Poems  Written  during  Es- 
trangement). He  was  born  in  Yorkshire,  August  2,  1858,  and  edu- 
cated at  Liverpool.  He  published  his  first  volume  of  verse  in  1880. 
In  1884  appeared  Epigrams  of  Art,  Life,  and  Nature;  in  1885  his 
remarkable  sonnet-sequence,  Ver  Tenehrosum;  in  1890  the  elegy, 
W^ ordsworth^ s  Grave,  with  the  second  edition  of  which  in  189 1  and  an 
article  on  it  by  Grant  Allen  in  the  August  number  of  The  Fortnightly 
Review  of  the  same  year,  Sir  William  (at  the  time  Mr^Watson  be- 
gan to  be  known  as  a  poet  of  great  gift  and  promise.  In  1893  was 
published  another  elegy,  Lacrymce  Musarum,  the  finest  of  the  poetic 
tributes  comp)osed  upon  the  death  of  Tennyson.  A  Uttle  later  Glad- 
stone awarded  the  distinguished  elegist  the  Civil  List  pension  of  £200 
vacated  by  the  death  of  Tennyson.     Other  poems  of  a  political  and 


484  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

philosophical  nature  have  appeared  from  time  to  time.  In  191 7  his 
poems  of  the  Great  War  were  collected  in  The  Man  Who  Saw.  He  was 
knighted  in  191 7. 

On  more  than  one  occasion  Sir  William  Watson  has  scored  political 
measures  and  their  proponents  in  verse  of  impassioned  indignation. 
He  is  a  man  of  intense  conviction.  Even  his  literary  prejudices  he 
seems  to  take  to  heart.  But  his  distinguishing  trait  is  a  poetical  con- 
servatism, a  desire  to  return  to  the  earlier  and,  in  his  view,  nobler 
traditions  of  Wordsworth  and  Arnold.  His  reflective  poems  are  char- 
acterized by  a  dehberate  restraint,  a  deep  and  steady  but  not  corus- 
cating ardor  of  the  imagination,  an  epigrammatic  conciseness  of  state- 
ment, a  philosophical  breadth,  and  a  spiritual  peace  not  shaken  by 
the  clash  and  clangor  of  modern  industrialism.  Above  contemporary 
confusions  he  lifts  us  to  the  dispassionate  view  of  the  glory  and  splen- 
dor of  life,  —  the  universal  view  and  the  profound  comfort.  "  By 
the  distinction  and  clarity  of  his  style  and  the  dignity  of  his  move- 
ment he  stands  io  the  true  classical  tradition  of  great  English  verse, 
in  a  generation  rather  given  over  to  lawlessness  and  experiment." 
These  traits  are  seen  at  their  best  in  his  most  famous  poem,  Words- 
worth's Grave.  Different  as  this  elegy  is  in  conception,  mood,  and 
manner  from  the  other  elegies  produced  in  full  or  represented  in  this 
book,  it  may  yet  be  counted  as  of  their  company.  It  has  not  the  tone 
of  sublime  passion  and  imaginative  grandeur  of  the  Adonais;  it  has 
not  the  grace  and  silvery  music  of  Lycidas;  it  has  not  the  intimate, 
popular  quality  of  The  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard, 
or  the  philosophical  scope  and  lyric  variety  of  In  Memoriam.  But 
it  has  a  grave  tranquillity  —  interrupted  but  for  a  moment  (11.  121- 
140)  by  a  noble  if  not  Miltonic  indignation  (compare  Lycidas, 
11.  108-131).  Its  elevated  tone  and  contemplative  sweetness,  its 
sincerity  and  restraint  of  passion,  its  fit  and  large  simplicity  of 
diction,  and  its  extraordinary  directness  of  statement  entitle  it 
to  high  place.  The  tribute  to  Wordsworth  is  offered  with  im- 
surpassed  sympathy  and  a  profound  understanding  of  the  master's 
teaching ;  the  protest  against  insincerity,  voluptuousness,  and  trifling 
in  art,  is  trenchant,  scornful,  but  dignified.  The  elegy  has  something 
of  its  own  to  say  to  minds  distraught  by  the  fevered  century  and  it 
says  it  clearly,  unmistakably.  One  of  the  most  interesting  features 
of  the  poem  is  its  penetrative  literary  criticism.  An  epigrammatic 
compression  of  statement,  which  Sir  William  had  practised  in  his 
Epigrams  of  1884,  is  most  happily  evident  in  his  criticisms  of  upwards 
of  a  dozen  poets  and  in  his  apt  arraignment  of  certain  previous  and 


WORDSWORTH'S  GRAVE  485 

contemporary  movements  in  poetry.  These  very  appropriately  serve 
as  foil  to,  and  setting  for,  his  praise  of  Wordsworth.  The  student 
may  find  delight  and  profit  in  comparing  these  estimates  with  his 
own  impressions  as  gathered  from  his  study  of  some  of  the  poets  in 
this  volume.  If  he  can  understand  and  enjoy  the  masterly  criticism, 
he  will  have  satisfied  one  of  the  best  possible  tests  that  could  be  set 
upon  his  reading.  Watson's  Selected  Poems  are  published  by  John 
Lane  Company,  1903. 

WORDSWORTH'S   GRAVE 


The  old  rude  church,  with  bare,  bald  tower,  is  here; 

Beneath  its  shadow  high-born  Rotha  flows ; 
Rotha,  remembering  well  who  slumbers  near, 

And  with  cool  murmur  lulling  his  repose.  < 

Rotha,  remembering  well  who  slumbers  near. 

His  hills,  his  lakes,  his  streams  are  with  him  yet. 
Surely  the  heart  that  read  her  own  heart  clear 

Nature  forgets  not  soon :  'tis  we  forget.  8 

We  that  with  vagrant  soul  his  fixity 

Have  slighted ;  faithless,  done  his  deep  faith  wrong. 
Left  him  for  poorer  loves,  and  bowed  the  knee 

To  misbegotten  strange  new  gods  of  song.  12 

Yet,  led  by  hollow  ghost  or  beckoning  elf 
Far  from  her  homestead  to  the  desert  bourn, 

The  vagrant  soul  returning  to  herself 

Wearily  wise,  must  needs  to  him  return.  i6 

To  him  and  to  the  powers  that  with  him  dwell :  — 
Inflowings  that  divulged  not  whence  they  came ; 

And  that  secluded  spirit  unknowable. 
The  mystery  we  make  darker  with  a  name ;  20 

The  Somewhat  which  we  name  but  cannot  know, 

Ev'n  as  we  name  a  star  and  only  see 
His  quenchless  flashings  fortii,  which  ever  show 

And  ever  hide  him,  and  which  are  not  he.  34 


486  WATSON 


II 


Poet  who  sleepest  by  this  wandering  wave  ! 

When  thou  wast  born,  what  birth-gift  hadst  thou  then  ? 
To  thee  what  wealth  was  that  the  Immortals  gave, 

The  wealth  thou  gavest  in  thy  turn  to  men  ?  28 

Not  Milton's  keen,  translunar  music  thine ; 

Not  Shakespeare's  cloudless,  boundless  human  view ; 
Not  Shelley's  flush  of  rose  on  peaks  divine ; 
.   Nor  yet  the  wizard  twilight  Coleridge  knew.  32 

What  hadst  thou  that  could  make  so  large  amends 
For  all  thou  hadst  not  and  thy  peers  possessed. 

Motion  and  fire,  swift  means  to  radiant  ends  ?  — 
Thou  hadst,  for  weary  feet,  the  gift  of  rest.  36 

From  Shelley's  dazzling  glow  or  thundrous  ha5;e. 
From  Byron's  tempest-anger,  tempest-mirth, 

Men  turned  to  thee  and  found  —  not  blast  and  blaze. 
Tumult  of  tottering  heavens,  but  peace  on  earth.  40 

Nor  peace  that  grows  by  Lethe,  scentless  flower. 
There  in  white  languors  to  decline  and  cease ; 

But  peace  whose  names  are  also  rapture,  power. 

Clear  sight,  and  love :  for  these  are  parts  of  peace.  44 

in 

I  hear  it  vouched  the  Muse  is  with  us  still ;  — 

If  less  divinely  frenzied  than  of  yore, 
In  lieu  of  feelings  she  has  wondrous  skfll 

To  simulate  emotion  felt  no  more.  48 

Not  such  the  authentic  Presence  pure,  that  made 
This  vaUey  vocal  in  the  great  days  gone  !  — 

In  his  great  days,  while  yet  the  spring-time  played 
About  him,  and  the  mighty  morning  shone.  52 


WORDSWORTH'S  GRAVE  487 

No  word-mosaic  artificer,  he  sang 

A  lofty  song  of  lowly  weal  and  dole. 
Right  from  the  heart,  right  to  the  heart  it  sprang, 

Or  from  the  soul  leapt  instant  to  the  soul.  s6 

He  felt  the  charm  of  childhood,  grace  of  youth, 

Grandeur  of  age,  insisting  to  be  sung. 
The  impassioned  argument  was  simple  truth 

Half-wondering  at  its  own  melodious  tongue.  60 

Impassioned  ?  ay,  to  the  song's  ecstatic  core  ! 

But  far  removed  were  clangor,  storm  and  feud ; 
For  plenteous  health  was  his,  exceeding  store 

Of  joy,  and  an  impassioned  quietude.  64 

IV 

A  hundred  years  ere  he  to  manhood  came. 

Song  from  celestial  heights  had  wandered  down, 

Put  oflF  her  robe  of  sunlight,  dew,  and  flame. 

And  donned  a  modish  dress  to  charm  the  Town.  68 

Thenceforth  she  but  festooned  the  porch  of  things ; 

Apt  at  life's  lore,  incurious  what  life  meant. 
Dextrous  of  hand,  she  struck  her  lute's  few  strings ; 

Ignobly  perfect,  barrenly  content.  72 

Unfiushed  with  ardor  and  unblanched  with  awe, 

Her  lips  in  profitless  derision  curled. 
She  saw  with  dull  emotion  —  if  she  saw  — • 

The  vision  of  the  glory  of  the  world.  76 

The  human  masque  she  watched,  with  dreamless  eyes 
In  whose  clear  shallows  lurked  no  trembling  shade : 

The  stars,  unkenned  by  her,  might  set  and  rise. 

Unmarked  by  her,  the  daisies  bloom  and  fade.  80 

The  age  grew  sated  with  her  sterile  wit. 
Herself  waxed  weary  on  her  loveless  throne. 


488  WATSON 

Men  felt  life's  tide,  the  sweep  and  surge  of  it, 
And  craved  a  living  voice,  a  natural  tone.  84 

For  none  the  less,  though  song  was  but  half  true, 
The  world  lay  common,  one  abounding  theme. 

Man  joyed  and  wept,  and  fate  was  ever  new, 
And  love  was  sweet,  life  real,  death  no  dream.  88 

In  sad  stern  verse  the  rugged  scholar-sage 

Bemoaned  his  toil  unvalued,  youth  uncheered. 

His  numbers  wore  the  vesture  of  the  age. 

But,  'neath  it  beating,  the  great  heart  was  heard.  92 

From  dewy  pastures,  uplands  sweet  with  thyme, 

A  virgin  breeze  freshened  the  jaded  day. 
It  wafted  Collins'  lonely  vesper-chime, 

It  breathed  abroad  the  frugal  note  of  Gray.  96 

It  fluttered  here  and  there,  nor  swept  in  vain 
The  dusty  haunts  where  futile  echoes  dwell,  — ■ 

Then,  in  a  cadence  soft  as  summer  rain. 

And  sad  from  Auburn  voiceless,  drooped  and  fell.         100 

It  drooped  and  fell,  and  one  'neath  northern  skies. 
With  southern  heart,  who  tilled  his  father's  field. 

Found  Poesy  a-dying,  bade  her  rise 

And  touch  quick  Nature's  hem  and  go  forth  healed.     104 

On  life's  broad  plain  the  ploughman's  conquering  share 
Upturned  the  fallow  lands  of  truth  anew, 

And  o'er  the  formal  garden's  trim  parterre 

The  peasant's  team  a  ruthless  furrow  drew.  108 

Bright  was  his  going  forth,  but  clouds  ere  long 

Whelmed  him ;  in  gloom  his  radiance  set,  and  those 

Twin  morning  stars  of  the  new  century's  song, 

Those  morning  stars  that  sang  together,  rose.  112 

In  elvish  speech  the  Dreamer  told  his  tale 
Of  marvellous  oceans  swept  by  fateful  wings.  — 


WORDSWORTH'S  GRAVE  489 

The  Sd^  strayed!  not  from|earth's  hubian  pale, 

But  the  mysterious  face  of  common  things  116 

He  mirrored  as  the  moon  in  Rydal  Mere 

Is  mirrored,  when  the  breathless  night  hangs  blue : 

Strangely  remote  she  seems  and  wondrous  near, 
And  by  some  nameless  difference  born  anew.  120 

V 

Peace  —  peace  —  and  rest !    Ah,  how  the  lyre  is  loth. 
Or  powerless  now,  to  give  what  all  men  seek  ! 

Either  it  deadens  with  ignoble  sloth 
Or  deafens  with  shrill  tumult,  loudly  weak.  124 

Where  is  the  singer  whose  large  notes  and  clear 
Can  heal  and  arm  and  plenish  and  sustain  ? 

Lo,  one  with  empty  music  floods  the  ear. 

And  one,  the  heart  refreshing,  tires  the  brain.  128 

And  idly  tuneful,  the  loquacious  throng 

Flutter  and  twitter,  prodigal  of  time. 
And  little  masters  make  a  toy  of  song 

Till  grave  men  weary  of  the  sound  of  rhyme.  132 

And  some  go  prankt  in  faded  antique  dress. 

Abhorring  to  be  hale  and  glad  and  free  j 
And  some  parade  a  conscious  naturalness. 

The  scholar's  not  the  child's  simplicity.  136 

Enough ;  —  and  wisest  who  from  words  forbear. 

The  kindly  river  rails  not  as  it  glides ; 
And  suave  and  charitable,  the  winning  air 

Chides  not  at  all,  or  only  him  who  chides.  140 

VI 

Nature  !  we  storm  thme  ear  with  choric  notes. 
Thou  answerest  through  the  calm  great  nights  and  days, 


490  WATSON 

"  Laud  me  who  will :  not  tuneless  are  your  throats ; 
Yet  if  ye  paused  I  should  not  miss  the  praise."  144 

We  falter,  half-rebuked,  and  sing  again. 

We  chant  thy  desertness  and  haggard  gloom, 
Or  with  thy  splendid  wrath  inflate  the  strain. 

Or  touch  it  with  thy  color  and  perfume.  148 

One,  his  melodious  blood  aflame  for  thee. 

Wooed  with  fierce  lust,  his  hot  heart  world-defiled. 

One,  with  the  upward  eye  of  infancy, 
Looked  in  thy  face,  and  felt  himself  thy  child.  152 

Thee  he  approached  without  distrust  or  dread  — 
Beheld  thee  throned,  an  awful  queen,  above  — - 

Climbed  to  thy  lap  and  merely  laid  his  head 
Against  thy  warm  wild  heart  of  mother-love.  156 

He  heard  that  vast  heart  beating  —  thou  didst  press 
Thy  child  so  close,  and  lov'dst  him  unaware. 

Thy  beauty  gladdened  him ;  yet  he  scarce  less 

Had  loved  thee,  had  he  never  found  thee  fair  !  160 

For  thou  wast  not  as  legendary  lands 

To  which  with  curious  eyes  and  ears  we  roam. 

Nor  wast  thou  as  a  fane  'mid  solemn  sands, 

Where  palmers  halt  at  evening.     Thou  wast  home.      164 

And  here,  at  home,  still  bides  he ;  but  he  sleeps ; 

Not  to  be  wakened  even  at  thy  word ; 
Though  we,  vague  dreamers,  dream  he  somewhere  keeps 

An  ear  still  open  to  thy  voice  still  heard,  —  168 

Thy  voice,  as  heretofore,  about  him  blown, 

For  ever  blown  about  his  silence  now ; 
Thy  voice,  though  deeper,  yet  so  like  his  own 

That  almost,  when  he  sang,  we  deemed  'twas  thou  !     172 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  491 

VII 

Behind  Helm  Crag  and  Silver  Howe  the  sheen 

Of  the  retreating  day  is  less  and  less. 
Soon  will  the  lordlier  summits,  here  unseen, 

Gather  the  night  about  their  nakedness.  176 

The  half -heard  bleat  of  sheep  comes  from  the  hill. 

Faint  sounds  of  childish  play  are  in  the  air. 
The  river  murmurs  past.     All  else  is  still. 

The  very  graves  seem  stiller  than  they  were.  180 

Afar  though  nation  be  on  nation  hurled, 

And  Hfe  with  toil  and  ancient  pain  depressed, 

Here  one  may  scarce  believe  the  whole  wide  world 

Is  not  at  peace,  and  all  man's  heart  at  rest.  isl 

Rest !  'twas  the  gift  he  gave ;  and  peace  !  the  shade 
He  spread,  for  spirits  fevered  with  the  sun. 

To  him  his  bounties  are  come  back  —  here  laid 

In  rest,  in  peace,  his  labor  nobly  done.  188 

RUDYARD   KIPLING   (1865-        ) 

Rudyard-  Kipling  was  born  December  30,  1865,  at  Bombay,  where 
his  father,  recently  arrived  from  England,  was  Professor  of  Archi- 
tectural Sculpture.  Like  the  children  of  most  parents  in  the  Anglo- 
Indian  services,  the  boy  and  his  little  sister  spent  their  youth  in  Eng- 
land. There  they  lived  from  1871  on;  part  of  the  time  with  Mrs. 
Kipling's  sister,  the  wife  of  Edward  (later  Sir  Edward)  Burne- Jones, 
the  famous  painter,  a  friend  of  Rossetti  and  Morris.  In  1878  Rudyard 
was  sent  to  school  at  Westward  Ho,  Bideford,  Devon.  Here,  instead 
of  aiming  at  school  honors,  he  read  with  avidity  and  devoted  himself 
to  original  composition.  See  his  story,  Stalky  and  Co.  He  published 
verses  in  more  than  one  journal  before  he  was  seventeen.  In  his 
poetic  ambitions  he  was  encouraged  by  his  parents,  his  uncle's  family 
and  their  literary  friends,  and  some  of  his  teachers.  Mr.  Kipling 
returned  to  India  in  1882  and  for  the  next  seven  years  was  assistant- 
editor,  successively,  of  the  Lahore  Civil  and  Military  Gazette  and  the 


492  TEE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Allahabad  Pioneer.  In  the  former  journal  appeared  his  Depart- 
mental Ditties  and  more  than  half  of  the  stories  first  pubhshed  in  1887 
as  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.  During  the  next  two  years  he  wrote 
similar  stories  for  The  Pioneer,  and  published  in  book  form  six  col- 
lections of  them.  Both  poems  and  stories  won  instant  recognition. 
In  1889  Mr.  KipUng  started  on  a  tour  round  the  world  by  way  of 
Hongkong,  Nagasaki,  and  San  Francisco,  writing  letters  en  route 
for  the  Pioneer  which  were  printed  under  the  title,  From  Sea  to  Sea. 
He  arrived  in  London  the  same  year,  and  republished  in  1890  the 
Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.  The  book  was  received  with  enthusiasm 
both  in  England  and  America.  The  Barrack-Room  Ballads  issued 
the  next  year  established  Mr.  Kipling's  reputation  as  a  poet  of  magic 
newness,  humor,  pathos,  and  bewitching  melody.  From  that  time 
his  numerous  poems  and  tales  have  achieved  ever  increasing  success. 
In  1891  he  resumed  his  journey  round  the  world.  On  his  return  to 
London  he  married  Caroline  Starr  Balestier,  daughter  of  Mr.  Wolcott 
Balestier  of  New  York.  Until  1896  the  Kiplings  lived  at  Brattle- 
boro,  Vermont.  In  1897-1898  they  were  in  South  Africa.  Since 
1898  Mr.  Kipling  has  travelled  extensively  but  his  home  has  been 
in  Sussex,  at  first  near  Rottingdean.  He  lives  now  at  Batemans, 
near  Burwash.  In  1907  he  was  awarded  the  Nobel  Prize  for  Litera- 
ture.    In  191 5  he  lost  his  only  son  in  the  war. 

Of  Mr.  Kipling's  prose  works  we  cannot  speak  here.  The  student 
has  known  The  Jungle  Books  and  the  Just  So  Stories  from  childhood ; 
he  should  read  Soldiers  Three,  Captains  Courageous,  Wee  Willie  Win- 
kie.  The  Light  that  Failed,  Kim,  and  TJte  Day's  Work.  The  remaining 
volumes  of  poems  are  TJte  Seven  Seas  (1896),  The  Five  Nations 
(1903),  Tfie  Years  Between  (19 19).  Practically  aU  of  his  poems  are 
to  be  found  in  Rudyard  Kipling's  Verse:  Inclusive  Edition  (Double- 
day,  Page  and  Co.,  New  York,  1919). 

During  the  last  thirty  years  England  has  had  no  poet  more  virile, 
consistent,  and  sincere  in  the  interpretation  of  national  and  social, 
practical  and  spiritual  movements  than  Rudyard  Kipling;  no  poet 
so  fearless  and  accurate  in  the  prophecy  of  events.  Nor  has  his 
teaching  been  salutary  to  the  British  Commonwealth  alone ;  it  has 
beneficially  influenced  the  entire  English-speaking  world.  He  finds  the 
theme  for  his  noblest  verse  in  national  honor  and  responsibihty  and 
the  clean  and  vigorous  manhood  upon  which  they  must  be  based. 
His  gospel  is  the  gospel  of  work,  discipline,  willing  sacrifice.  Man  is 
made  to  serve.  He  best  serves  the  world  who  best  conserves  the 
national  inheritance  of  righteousness. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  493 

Fair  is  our  lot  —  O  goodly  is  our  heritage ! 
(Humble  ye,  my  people,  and  be  fearful  in  your  mirth !) 

So  opens  the  Song  of  the  English,  and  it  is  a  song  for  young  Americans 
to-day.  Depart  not  from  righteousness,  says  the  poet;  lend  not 
the  ear  to  evil  counsellors.  "Hold  ye  the  Faith  —  the  Faith  our 
Fathers  sealed  us."  To  God  alone  "pay  single  heart  and  single 
sword  .  .  .  Keep  ye  the  Law  —  be  swift  in  all  obedience  .  .  .  Clear 
the  land  of  evil  .  .  .  Make  ye  sure  to  each  his  own  .  .  .  By  the 
peace  among  Our  peoples,  let  men  know  we  serve  the  Lord."  This  is 
the  lesson  of  the  Recessional  and  the  Hymn  before  Action,  too.  —  No 
little  Englander  is  Mr.  Kipling:  "What  should  they  know  of  Eng- 
land who  only  England  know?"  He  is  the  conscience  of  all  the  na- 
tions that  constitute  the  British  Commonwealth ;  the  spokesman  of 
their  essential  unity:  in  freedom  and  sovereignty,  individual,  but 
knit  by  "love  without  promise  or  fee"  with  the  "Mother  that  bore 
them."  He  is  not  an  imperialist  autocratic  and  covetous  of  do- 
minion; his  "imperialism"  is  the  mission  of  rulers — to  "serve 
and  love  the  lands  they  rule";  to  keep  faith  with  the  Mother 
and  the  world.  He  is  no  militarist:  he  believes  in  being  "sure- 
guarded,  —  forthright,  accoutred,  accepting  when  the  hour  of  trouble 
comes";  for  we  "are  neither  children  nor  Gods,  but  men  in  a 
world  of  men"  {The  English  Flag,  The  Song  of  the  Sons,  Eng- 
land's Answer,  A  School  Song,  The  Islanders,  The  Lesson,  Before  a 
Midnight  Breaks  in  Storm,  The  Dykes,  The  Rowers).  His  gospel 
is  for  Americans  as  well  as  for  his  own  people  (An  American,  The 
White  Man's  Burden,  The  Question,  The  Choice).  Rudyard  Kipling 
is  the  representative  poet  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  to-day,  thfe  un- 
crowned laureate. 

National  duty  and  destiny  are  not  Mr.  Kipling's  only  theme.  He 
sings  of  life  in  its  fullness:  its  spirit  of  adventure,  its  heroism,  its 
ecstasy,  its  humor,  its  pathos,  its  poetic  and  religious  aspiration. 
"The  gift  of  imagination,  with  which  he  is  endowed  as  few  men  have 
ever  been,  has  quickened  and  deepened  his  sympathies  with  men  of 
every  class  and  race.  '  And  as  time  has  passed  his  vision  has  broad- 
ened and  his  insight  has  deepened.  He  is  the  poet  of  the  sea,  of 
The  Last  Chantey  and  The  Coastwise  Lights,  and  of  the  land.  The 
Native  Born;  of  Tommy  Atkins,  and  of  the  Civil  Service  official; 
of  Fuzzy-Wuzzy  and  Gunga  Din;  of  Kitchener  and  Roberts;  of 
the  Broken  Men  and  the  tramp;  of  For  to  Admire  and  the  Chant- 
Pagan  and  Tramp-Royal;  of  Greece,  and  South  Africa,  and  Christ- 
mas in  India;  of  The  ColoneVs  Lady  an'  Judy  0' Grady;  of  princes 


494  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

and  peasants  and  popes;  of  the  passion  for  the  countryside,  of 
Sussex,  and  of  The  Flowers.  He  is  the  poet  of  the  temper  of  the 
day,  scientific,  democratic,  industrial,  commercial;  of  man's  world 
—  forceful,  cruel,  vulgar,  tender,  and  pathetic,  serious  or  ludi- 
crous; of  the  commonplace  made  significant;  of  the  dignity  of 
the  man  in  the  crowd  and  of  the  worth  of  things  —  especially  of  the 
thing  done;  of  the  romance  of  real  life;  of  the  romance  of  the 
ideal. 

In  one  of  the  noblest  of  his  poems.  To  the  True  Romance,  Mr.  Kip- 
ling sings  of  the  ideal  that  makes  life  worth  living.  This  ideal  he 
calls  true  romance.  It  is  the  poetry  of  life,  and  that  is  no  make- 
believe  ;  it  is  the  spirit  divine,  throbbing  in  the  breast  and  glowing 
in  the  imagination,  that  cheers  us  in  adversity  and  fires  us  to  lofty 
desire  and  deed.  The  "True  Romance"  is  the  mother  of  wisdom 
and  justice  and  worth  and  hope  and  beauty  and  love.  Her  face  is 
"far  from  this  our  war."  Her  "feet  have  trod  so  near  to  God  I  may 
not  follow  them" ;  I  may  see  her  and  touch  her  garment's  hem  only 
in  dreams.  I  shall  not  find  her,  nor  know  her  till  I  die.  The  "True 
Romance"  inspires  invention  and  heroic  conduct.  She  is  the  "corn- 
fortress  of  unsuccess."  She  makes  man  strong  to  stand  before  fate; 
she  atones  for  the  uncertainties  of  chance.  She  is  charity  and  faith 
and  heavenly  truth ;  the  angel  of  the  glory  of  what  is  now  incomplete. 
She  is  the  mother  of  religion,  eternal  in  man's  soul.  From  The 
Palace  we  learn  further  that  to  realize  this  poetry  of  life  one  must 
labor,  one  must  build.  But  not  with  selfish  end,  nor  with  expecta- 
tion of  completing  the  palace  of  one's  dream.  We  build  for  the 
generations  that  follow.  They  reconstruct,  approaching  a  little 
nearer  to  perfection.  In  his  verses  dedicated  to  Wolcott  Balestier,  and 
opening  "Beyond  the  path  of  the  outmost  sun,"  Mr.  Kipling  makes 
plain  that  such  service  to  our  fellow  men,  "in  simpleness  and  gentle- 
ness and  honor  and  clean  mirth,"  is  the  test  of  religion.  In  what- 
ever heaven  there  is  —  "  Sit  such  as  fought  and  sailed  and  ruled  and 
loved  and  made  our  world  ....  It  is  their  wiU  to  serve  or  be  still 
as  fitteth  our  Father's  praise."  To  them  the  wise  Lord  God  tells 
tales  of  his  labors,  "And  they  rise  to  their  feet  as  He  passes  by  — 
gentlemen  unafraid."  That  He  sets  them  to  work  anew  "for  the 
joy  of  the  working,"  we  discover  not  only  from  this  poem  but  from 
the  matchless  stanzas  of  When  Earth's  Last  Picture  is  Painted. 
The  man  of  footless  existence  and  borrowed  opinions  Mr.  Kipling 
despises,  also  the  trickster,  the  traducer,  the  traitor  (Tomlinson, 
The  Hycenas,  Gehazi).  For  the  undeservedly  unfortunate  and  the 
truly  penitent  he  has  nothing  but  pity  and  encouragement.     ; 


MANDALAY  495 

As  a  balladist,  as  a  writer  of  swinging  and  manly  lyrics,  dramatic 
monologues,  and  narrative  sketches,  Mr.  Kipling  is  supreme  among 
the  moderns.  Read  The  Ballad  of  East  and  West,  Bolivar,  Danny 
Deever,  The  Long  Trail,  The  Song  of  the  Banjo,  Mandalay,  Boots, 
The  Truce  of  the  Bear,  M' Andrew's  Hymn,  The  Mary  Gloster,  The 
'Eathen.  He  has  written  in  a  multiplicity  of  metres  and  with  a 
marvellous  mastery  of  rhythms.  The  drum  and  fife  of  his  earlier 
songs  and  ballads  must  not  deafen  the  ear  to  the  richer  and  loftier 
strains  of  his  poems  of  nature,  his  elegies,  his  prayers,  and  his  hymns. 
In  My  New-Cut  Ashlar,  The  Children's  Song,  the  Hymn  before 
Action,  and  For  All  we  Have  and  Are,  as  in  the  Recessional,  he 
attains  the  majestic  movement  and  the  awe  of  the  Hebrew  prophet. 
Mr.  Kipling  has  studied  many  masters,  Poe,  Bret  Harte,  Emerson, 
Shelley,  Browning,  Macaulay,  Tennyson,  Swinburne ;  but  his  music, 
his  forthright  diction,  and  his  message  are  his  own. 


MANDALAY  1 

By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to  the  sea, 
There's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin',  an'  I  know  she  thinks  o'  me; 
For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm-trees,  an'  the  temple-bells  they  say : 
''  Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier ;  come  you  back  to  Man- 
dalay !  " 

Come  you  back  to  Mandalay,  s 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay : 

Can't  you   'ear  their  paddles  chunkin'  from  Rangoon 

to  Mandalay? 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China  'crost 
the  Bay !  10 

'Er  petticoat  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was  green, 

An'  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat  —  jes'  the  same  as  Theebaw's 

Queen, 
An'  I  seed  her  first  a-smokin'  of  a  whackin'  white  cheroot, 
An'  a-wastin'  Christian  kisses  on  an  'eathen  idol's  foot : 

1  The  following  poems  by  Rudyard  Kipling  are  used  by  permission  of  and 
special  arrangement  with  Doubleday,  Page  and  Co. 


496  KIPLING 

Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud  —  is 

Wot  they  called  the  Great  Gawd  Budd  — 

Plucky  lot  she  cared  for  idols  when  I  kissed  'er  where  she 

stud! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay  — 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice-fields  an'  the  sun  was  droppin' 

slow, 
She'd  git  'er  little  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  "  Kulla-lo-lo  !  "  20 

With  'er  arm  upon  my  shoulder  an'  her  cheek  agin  my  cheek 
We  useter  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  hathis  pilin'  teak. 

Elephints  a-pilin'  teak 

In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek. 

Where  the  silence  'ung  that  'eavy  you  was  'arf  afraid 
to  speak !  25 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay  — 

But  that's  all  shove  be'ind  me  —  long  ago  an'  fur  away. 
An'  there  ain't  no  'buses  runnin'  from  the  Bank  to  Mandalay ; 
An'  I'm  learnin'  'ere  in  London  what  the  ten-year  soldier  tells : 
"  If   you've   'eard  the  East  a-caUin',  you  won't   never  'eed 
naught  else."  30 

No  !  you  won't  'eed  no  thin'  else 

But  them  spicy  garlic  smells, 

An'   the   sunshine  an'   the  palm-trees  an*   the   tinkly 
temple-bells ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay  — 

I  am  sick  o'  wastin'  leather  on  these  gritty  pavin'-stones,  35 
An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  the  fever  in  my  bones ; 
Tho'  I  walks  with  fifty  'ousemaids  outer  Chelsea  to  the  Strand, 
An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovin',  but  wot  do  they  understand? 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  'and  — 

Law  !  wot  do  they  understand  ?  40 

I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner,  greener  land  ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay  — 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez,  where  the  best  is  like  the  worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments  an'  a  man  can 
raise  a  thirst ; 


GUNGA   DIN  497 

For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I  would  be  —  45 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the  sea ; 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay, 

With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  when  we  went  to 
Mandalay  ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay,  50 

Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play. 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China  'crost 
the  Bay ! 

GUNGA  DIN 

You  may  talk  o^  gin  and  beer 

When  you're  quartered  safe  out  'ere, 

An'  you're  sent  to  penny-fights  an'  Aldershot  it ; 

But  when  it  comes  to  slaughter 

You  will  do  your  work  on  water,  5 

An'  you'll  lick  the  bloomin'  boots  of  'im  that's  got  it. 

Now  in  Injia's  sunny  clime, 

Where  I  used  to  spend  my  time 

A-servin'  of  'Er  Majesty  the  Queen, 

Of  all  them  black-faced  crew  10 

The  finest  man  I  knew 

Was  our  regimental  bhisti,  Gunga  Din. 

He  was  ''  Din  !    Din  !    Din  ! 
You  limpin'  lump  o'  brick-dust,  Gunga  Din  ! 

Hi !  slippy  hitherao  I  is 

Water,  get  it !    Panee  lao  I 
You  squidgy-nosed  old  idol,  Gunga  Din  !  " 

The  uniform  'e  wore 
Was  nothin'  much  before, 

An'  rather  less  than  'arf  o'  that  be'ind,  so 

For  a  piece  o'  twisty  rag 
An'  a  goatskin  water-bag 
^  Was  all  the  field  equipment  'e  could  find. 

When  the  sweatin'  troop-train  lay 

2K 


49^  KIPLING 

In  a  sidin'  through  the  day,  25 

Where  the  'eat  would  make  your  bloomin'  eyebrows  crawl, 

We  shouted  "  Harry  By  !  " 

Till  our  throats  were  bricky-dry, 

Then  we  wopped  'im  'cause  'e  couldn't  serve  us  all. 

It  was  "  Din  !    Din  !     Din  !  30 

You  'eathen,  where  the  mischief  'ave  you  been  ? 

You  put  some  juldee  in  it, 

Or  I'll  marrow  you  this  minute 
,     If  you  don't  fill  up  my  helmet,  Gunga  Din  !  " 

'E  would  dot  an'  carry  one  3S 

Till  the  longest  day  was  done, 

An'  'e  didn't  seem  to  know  the  use  o'  fear. 

If  we  charged  or  broke  or  cut, 

You  could  bet  your  bloomin'  nut, 

'E'd  be  waitin'  fifty  paces  right  flank  rear.  '  40 

With  'is  mussick  on  'is  back, 

'E  would  skip  with  our  attack, 

An'  watch  us  till  the  bugles  made  "  Retire." 

An'  for  all  'is  dirty  'ide 

'E  was  white,  clear  white,  inside  4S 

When  'e  went  to  tend  the  wounded  under  fire  ! 

It  was  "  Din  !    Din  !     Din  !  " 
With  the  bullets  kickin'  dust-spots  on  the  green. 

When  the  cartridges  ran  out, 

You  could  'ear  the  front-files  shout :  50 

"  Hi !  ammunition-mules  an'  Gunga  Din  I  " 

I  shan't  forgit  the  night 

When  I  dropped  be'ind  the  fight 

With  a  bullet  where  my  belt-plate  should  'a'  been. 

I  was  chokin'  mad  with  thirst,  ss 

An'  the  man  that  spied  me  first 

Was  our  good  old  grinnin',  gruntin'  Gunga  Din. 

'E  lifted  up  my  'ead, 

An'  'e  plugged  me  where  I  bled, 

An'  'e  guv  me  'arf-a-pint  o'  water  —  green :  "^  60 


IF  499 

It  was  crawlin'  and  it  stunk, 
But  of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk, 
I'm  gratef uUest  to  one  from  Gunga  Din. 
It  was  "  Din  !     Din  !     Din  ! 
'Ere's  a  beggar  with  a  bullet  through  'is  spleen ;  65 

'E's  chawin'  up  the  ground. 
An'  'e's  kickin'  all  around : 
For  Gawd's  sake  git  the  water,  Gunga  Din  !  " 

'E  carried  me  away 

To  where  a  dooli  lay,  70 

An'  a  bullet  come  an'  drilled  the  beggar  clean. 
'E  put  me  safe  inside, 
An'  just  before  'e  died : 

*'  I  'ope  you  like  your  drink,"  sez  Gunga  Din. 
So  I'll  meet  'im  later  on  7S 

In  the  place  where  'e  is  gone  — 
Where  it's  always  double  drill  and  no  canteen ; 
'E'll  be  squattin'  on  the  coals 
Givin'  drink  to  pore  damned  souls. 

An'  I'll  get  a  swig  in  Hell  from  Gunga  Din  !  80 

Yes,  — Din!    Din!    Din! 

You  Lazarushian-leather  Gunga  Din  ! 
Tho'  I've  belted  you  an'  flayed  you, 
By  the  livin'  Gawd  that  made  you. 

You're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga  Din  !  85 


IF 


If  you  can  keep  your  head  when  all  about  you 

Are  losing  theirs  and  blaming  it  on  you, 
If  you  can  trust  yourself  when  all  men  doubt  you. 

But  make  allowance  for  their  doubting  too ; 
If  you  can  wait  and  not  be  tired  by  waiting,    • 

Or  being  lied  about,  don't  deal  in  lies, 
Or  being  hated  don't  give  way  to  hating, 

And  yet  don't  look  too  good,  nor  talk  too  wise : 


500  KIPLING 

If  you  can  dream  —  and  not  make  dreams  your  master ; 

If  you  can  think  —  and  not  make  thoughts  your  aim, 
If  you  can  meet  with  Triumph  and  Disaster 

And  treat  those  two  impostors  just  the  same ; 
If  you  can  bear  to  hear  the  truth  you've  spoken 

Twisted  by  knaves  to  make  a  trap  for  fools, 
Or  watch  the  things  you  gave  your  life  to,  broken, 

And  stoop  and  build  'em  up  with  worn-out  tools : 

If  you  can  make  one  heap  of  all  your  winnings 

And  risk  it  on  one  turn  of  pitch-and-toss. 
And  lose,  and  start  again  at  your  beginnings 

And  never  breathe  a  word  about  your  loss ; 
If  you  can  force  your  heart  and  nerve  and  sinew 

To  serve  your  turn  long  after  they  are  gone. 
And  so  hold  on  when  there  is  nothing  in  you 

Except  the  Will  which  says  to  them :  "  Hold  on  !  " 

If  you  can  talk  with  crowds  and  keep  your  virtue. 

Or  walk  with  Kings  —  nor  lose  the  common  touch, 
If  neither  foes  nor  loving  friends  can  hurt  you. 

If  all  men  count  with  you,  but  none  too  much ; 
If  you  can  fill  the  unforgiving  minute 

With  sixty  seconds'  worth  of  distance  run. 
Yours  is  the  Earth  and  everything  that's  in  it. 

And  —  which  is  more  —  you'll  be  a  Man,  my  son  ! 


WHEN  EARTH'S  LAST  PICTURE   IS  PAINTED 

When  Earth's  last  picture  is  painted  and  the  tubes  are  twisted 

and  dried. 
When  the  oldest  colors  have  faded,  and  the  youngest  critic  has 

died,  • 

We  shall  rest,  and,  faith,  we  shall  need  it  —  lie  down  for  an 

aeon  or  two. 
Till  the  Master  of  All  Good  Workmen  shall  put  us  to  work 

anew.  4 


RECESSIONAL  501 

And  those  that  were  good  shall  be  happy:  they  shall  sit  in  a 

golden  chair ; 
They  shall  splash  at  a  ten-league  canvas  with  brushes  of  comet's 

hair. 
They  shall  find  real  saints  to  draw  from  —  Magdalene,  Peter, 

and  Paul ; 
They  shall  work  for  an  age  at  a  sitting  and  never  be  tired  at 

all!  8 

And  only  the  Master  shall  praise  us,  and  only  the  Master  shall 

blame ; 
And  no  one  shall  work  for  money,  and  no  one  shall  work  for 

fame, 
But  each  for  the  joy  of  the  working,  and  each,  in  his  separate 

star, 
Shall  draw  the  Thing  as  he  sees  It  for  the  God  of  Things  as 

They  are !  12 

RECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old, 

Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle-line. 
Beneath  whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 

Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet. 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget !  6 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies ; 

The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart : 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 

An  "humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget !  xa 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away ; 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire : 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 

Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre  ! 


502  KIPLING 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget !  i8 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe, 

Such  boastings  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet. 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget !  24 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 

In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard. 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word  — 
Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord !  30 


FOR  ALL  WE  HAVE  AND  ARE 

For  all  we  have  and  are. 

For  all  our  children's  fate. 

Stand  up  and  take  the  war. 

The  Hun  is  at  the  gate  !  4 

Our  world  has  passed  away 

In  wantonness  o'erthrown. 

There  is  nothing  left  to-day 

But  steel  and  fire  and  stone  !  8 

Though  all  we  knew  depart. 

The  old  Commandments  stand :  — 

"In  courage  keep  your  heart; 

In  strength  lift  up  your  hand."  12 

Once  more  we  hear  the  word 

That  sickened  earth  of  old :  — 

"  No  law  except  the  Sword 

Unsheathed  and  uncontrolled."  16 

Once  more  it  knits  mankind,  j 


FOR  ALL  WE  HAVE  AND  ARE  503 

Once  more  the  nations  go 

To  meet  and  break  and  bind 

A  crazed  and  driven  foe.  20 

Comfort,  content,  delight, 

The  ages'  slow-bought  gain, 

They  shrivelled  in  a  night. 

Only  ourselves  remain  24 

To  face  the  naked  days 

In  silent  fortitude. 

Through  perils  and  dismays 

Renewed  and  re-raiewed.  28 

Though  all  we  made  depart,, 
The  old  Commandments  stand :  — 
*'  In  patience  keep  your  heart, 
In  strength  lift  up  your  hand."  32 

No  easy  hope  or  lies 

Shall  bring  us  to  our  goal. 

But  iron  sacrifice 

Of  body,  will,  and  soul.  36 

There  is  but  one  task  for  all  — 

One  life  for  each  to  give. 

What  stands  if  Freedom  fall  ? 

Who  dies  if  England  live  ?  40 

WILLIAM   BUTLER  YEATS    (1865-        ) 

William  Butler  Yeats,  the  Irish  poet  and  playwright,  was  born  in 
Dublin,  June  13,  1865 ;  he  received  most  of  his  education  in  Irish 
schools.  His  father  was  a  distinguished  painter  and  for  a  time  he 
himself  studied  art,  but  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  turned  definitely 
to  literature,  writing  articles  for  Irish  journals.  In  his  twenty- third 
year,  at  the  suggestion  of  Oscar  Wilde,  he  came  up  to  London,  and 
in  1889  published  his  first  volume  of  poems,  The  Wanderings  of  Oisin. 
He  soon  became  identified  with  the  movement  for  a  renaissance  of 
Irish  letters  —  the  Hterary  aspect  of  Irish  nationaHsm  —  and  he  is 
to-day,  with  Mr.  George  Edward  Russell  (the  "  A.  E."  of  poetry) 
and  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  among  the  foremost  representatives  of  this 
new  Irish  school.     He  has  pubUshed  many  volumes  of  poems,  plays, 


504  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

and  essays,  and  has  been  greatly  interested  in  establishing  and  pro- 
moting an  Irish  literary  theatre. 

Mr.  Yeats  has  not  attempted  to  further  Irish  nationalism  by  giv- 
ing literary  form  to  the  economic  and  political  questions  of  the  move- 
ment, but  has  rather  endeavored  —  with  great  success  —  to  build  up 
a  body  of  pure  poetry  of  the  heart,  which  is  definitely  Irish  in  setting, 
association,  mood,  and  phrase.  He  has  drawn  his  subjects  in  great 
part  from  ancient  Irish  legend  and  verse,  and  has  treated  these  with 
a  peculiar  charm  of  which  the  constituents  are  romantic  originality, 
the  quintessence  of  emotion,  often  a  strain  of  mysticism,  and  always  a 
lyric  elusiveness  of  suggestion  and  a  hauntuig  beauty.  This  charm  — 
said  to  be  Celtic  —  is  evident  in  the  very  titles  of  his  poems  and  works, 
such  as  The  Wind  among  the  Reeds  (a  volume  of  lyrics,  1889),  The 
Shadowy  Waters  (a  poetical  drama,  1900),  Where  there  is  Nothing 
(another  play).  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire  (a  play,  1894),  To  the 
Rose  upon  the  Rood  of  Time,  and  In  the  Seven  Woods.  The  charm, 
however,  is  by  no  means  exclusively  or  distinctively  Irish:  both  in 
its  lighter,  more  elfin  moods  and  in  its  deeper,  more  serious  provoca- 
tions, it  is  anticipated  by  the  mystical  beauty  of  Blake,  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites,  and  Shelley,  and  it  betrays  a  certain  kinship  to  the  dreamy 
symboHsm  of  the  Belgian  poet  and  essayist,  Maeterlinck.  Peculiar 
and  captivating,  it  may  be  felt  as  atmosphere  in  many  of  Mr.  Yeats's 
poems,  as,  for  instance,  in  The  Wanderings  of  Oisin  and  The  Countess 
Cathleen,  especially  in  their  revised  form,  in  the  exquisite  Land  of 
.Heart's  Desire,  in  The  Madness  of  King  Goll,  and  in  other  poems  too 
iiumerous  to  mention.  The  first  of  our  selections,  The  Lake  Isle  of 
llnnisfree,  with  its  artful  simplicity,  soft  cadences,  and  far-away  en- 
/chantment,  well  illustrates  the  veil  of  beauty  which  this  magic  throws 
over  mood  and  landscape.  The  two  ballads  we  have  selected  belong 
to  the  more  objective  side  of  Mr.  Yeats's  work ;  yet  in  their  grace  of 
narrative  —  the  swift,  smooth,  emotional  way  in  which  the  story  slips 
along  —  there  is  much  of  Celtic  deftness,  and  the  folk  who  "  dance 
like  the  wave  of  the  sea  "  are  Irish  fairy-folk  and  none  other. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Mr.  Yeats  have  been  issued  in  two  volimies 
(Macmillan  Co.,  Vol.  I,  Lyrical  Poems,  1916). 

THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made ; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade.  4 


/o' 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  DOONEY  505 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes  dropping 

slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the  cricket 

sings ; 
There  midnight's  all  a  ghmmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings.  8 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 

I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore ; 

While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements  gray, 

I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core.  12 

THE   FIDDLER   OF  DOONEY 

When  I  play  my  fiddle  in  Dooney, 

Folk  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea ; 

My  cousin  is  priest  in  Kilvarnet, 

My  brother  in  Moharabuiee.  4 

I  passed  my  brother  and  cousin : 

They  read  in  their  books  of  prayer ; 

I  read  in  my  book  of  songs 

I  bought  at  the  Sligo  fair.  8 

When  we  come  at  the  end  of  time, 

To  Peter  sitting  in  state. 

He  will  smile  on  the  three  old  spirits, 

But  call  me  first  through  the  gate ;  12 

For  the  good  are  always  the  merry, 

Save  by  an  evil  chance. 

And  the  merry  love  the  fiddle 

And  the  merry  love  to  dance :  *  16 

And  when  the  folk  there  spy  me, 

They  will  all  come  up  to  me. 

With  "  Here  is  the  fiddler  of  Dooney  !  " 

And  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea.  20 


5o6  YEATS 

THE  BALLAD   OF  FATHER  GILLIGAN 

The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 
Was  weary  night  and  day ; 
For  lialf  his  flock  were  in  their  beds, 
Or  under  green  sods  lay. 

Once,  while  he  nodded  on  a  chair, 
At  the  moth-hour  of  eve, 
Another  poor  man  sent  for  him, 
And  he  began  to  grieve. 

"  I  have  no  rest,  nor  joy,  nor  peace. 
For  people  die  and  die  " ; 
And  after  cried  he,  "  God  forgive  ! 
My  body  spake,  not  I !  " 

He  knelt,  and  leaning  on  the  chair 

He  prayed  and  fell  asleep ; 

And  the  moth-hour  went  from  the  fields. 

And  stars  began  to  peep.  i6 

They  slowly  into  millions  grew, 

And  leaves  shook  in  the  wind ; 

And  God  covered  the  world  with  shade. 

And  whispered  to  mankind.  20 

Upon  the  time  of  sparrow  chirp 

When  the  moths  came  once  more, 

The  old  priest  Peter  GiUigan 

Stood  upright  on  the  floor.  24 

"  Mavrone,  mavrone  !  the  man  has  died. 

While  I  slept  on  the  chair  " ; 

He  roused  his  horse  out  of  its  sleep. 

And  rode  with  little  care.  28 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  507 


^^  He  rode  now  as  he  never  rode, 


m 


By  rocky  lane  and  fen ; 

The  sick  man's  wife  opened  the  door : 

*'  Father  !  you  come  again  I  "  32 

"  And  is  the  poor  man  dead  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  He  died  an  hour  ago." 

The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 

In  grief  swayed  to  and  fro.  36 

"  When  you  were  gone,  he  turned  and  died 

As  merry  as  a  bird." 

The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 

He  knelt  him  at  that  word.  40 

"  He  who  hath  made  the  night  of  stars 

For  souls,  who  tire  and  bleed. 

Sent  one  of  His  great  angels  down 

To  help  me  in  my  need.  44 

"  He  who  is  wrapped  in  purple  robes, 

With  planets  in  His  care. 

Had  pity  on  the  least  of  things 

Asleep  upon  a  chair."  .  48 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS   (1868-1915) 

Stephen  Phillips  was  bom  near  Oxford,  July  28,  1868.  Before 
the  end  of  his  first  term  at  college  he  joined  F.  R.  Benson's  players 
and  for  six  years  he  continued  with  them,  playing  small  parts  and 
acquiring  a  practical  knowledge  of  stagecraft  that  was  of  great  value 
to  him  later  in  writing  his  dramas.  In  1890  appeared  Primavera,  a 
slender  volume  of  verse  by  Phillips  and  his  cousin,  Laurence  Binyon. 
Eremus,  a  philosophic  vision  in  blank  verse  of  much  promise,  was 
published  in  1894,  and  two  years  later  Christ  in  Hades,  Phillips's 
first  work  of  importance,  a  poetic  interpretation  of  the  hope  of  Chris- 
tianity. A  collection  of  Poems  in  1897,  containing  Marpessa,  Christ 
in  Hades,  the  splendid  tribute  To  Milton,  Blind,  and  other  poems, 


5o8  THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

more  than  justified  the  expectations  aroused  by  the  previous  publica- 
tion and  brought  the  author  fame  and  a  prize  of  £ioo  that  The 
Academy  had  offered  for  the  best  book  of  the  year.  In  1898  Endymion 
appeared  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.  Then  PhiUips  produced  a  series 
of  poetical  plays  of  preeminent  beauty  and  much  dramatic  force: 
Paolo  and  Francesca  (1900),  Herod  (1901),  Ulysses  (1902),  The  Sin 
of  David  (1904),  and  Nero  (1906).  New  Poems,  which  included  a 
fine  appreciation  of  Gladstone  and  the  beautiful  Thoughts  at  Sunrise, 
Thoughts  at  Noon,  and  After  Rain,  was  printed  in  1907.  Eight  years 
later,  on  December  9,  Phillips  died. 

This  writer  does  not  owe  anything  to  the  schools  or  movements  of 
contemporary  poetry.  He  can,  as  in  The  Wife  and  The  Woman  with 
a  Dead  Soul,  poetize  the  life  of  the  city  with  a  realism  that  compares 
favorably  with  that  of  Henley  or  Davidson,  but  his  authentic  forte  is 
far  different.  In  imagery,  it  is  an  idealizing  sensuousness  of  all  rich 
sounds,  colors,  and  forms,  which  associates  him  with  poets  like  Milton, 
Keats,  and  Tennyson ;  in  spirit,  it  is  a  sense  of  the  intercommunion 
of  nature  and  man  m  the  Presence  —  the  "  gentleness  that  is  behind 
the  Law  " :  a  spirit  that  reminds  us  not  so  vividly  of  Wordsworth  as 
of  the  religious  and  mystical  poets  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Herbert, 
Crashaw,  and  Vaughan.  To  what  we  discover  in  our  richest  moments 
of  the  hidden  beauty  of  nature  he  is  most  sensitive  and  he  phrases 
it  in  music  of  delicate  suggestion.  Equally  understanding  and  im- 
passioned is  his  revelation  of  the  human  feeling  that  pervades  the 
narratives  of  Greek  mythology.  He  has  moreover  the  gift  of  evoking 
subhme  and  shadowy  pictures  of  epic  grandeur  and  romantic  mysti- 
cism, as  in  Christ  in  Hades.  When  he  is  not  dealing  with  realistic 
themes  his  style  reflects  the  lingering  classical  influence,  its  repression, 
its  simpHcity,  its  dignity,  and  his  mood  is  that  of  reflection  or  elevated 
passion,  and  of  undisturbed  beauty.  The  beauty  of  human  passion 
he  imbues,  however,  with  something  of  modern  romantic  emotion, 
not  with  its  yearning  for  novelty  but  with  a  pathos  distinctively  his 
own.  He  does  not  accentuate_grigf^as  something  startling  and  to  be 
avoided.  He  embraces  it.  He  takes  comfort  in  the  shadows  of  life 
as  well  as  in  its  ever  changing  loveliness.  In  his  noblest  tragedies 
of  love  the  keynote  is  the  sorrow  that  Hes  at  the  core  of  love :  "  I  have 
wept  but  on  the  pages  of  a  book,"  says  his  Francesca,  "  And  I  have 
longed  for  sorrow  of  my  own."  The  type  of  all  his  sweetest  women  is 
found  in  the  Marpessa  of  his  youthful  poem.  Offered  by  the  god 
Apollo  felicity,  "  existence  without  tears  for  evermore,"  she  rephes, 
"  I  being  human,  htunan  sorrow  miss,"  and  gives  herself  to  the  mortal 


MARPESSA  509 

lover,  Idas.  "  We  shall  grow  old  together,"  she  says,  "  endeared  by 
many  griefs.  .  .  .  Last,  we  shall  descend  into  the  natural  ground  — 
not  without  tears." 

Sometimes  Phillips  may  be  tempted  to  follow  false  prophets  into  the 
realm  of  the  morbid.  But  rarely.  To  the  ideals  of  love,  beauty, 
fellowship  in  suffering,  charity,  faith,  he  renders  a  devotion  manifestly 
sincere.  His  lyrics  are  not  the  equal  of  his  narrative  and  dramatic 
poems,  for  the  true  medium  of  his  utterance  was  blank  verse.  That 
medium  as  made  over  by  him  owes  something  to  Marlowe  and  to 
Milton,  but  its  cadences  are  more  lyrical ;  something  to  Tennyson  and 
to  Keats,  but  it  is  more  dramatic  in  its  power.  He  fashioned  blank 
verse  anew,  and  with  a  mastery  that  is  individual.  The  John  Lane 
Company  has  published  Phillips's  Poems,  1903. 

MARPESSA 

{Selections) 

Marpessa,  being  given  by  Zeus  her  choice  between  the  god  Apollo  and 
Idas  a  mortal,  chose  Idas. 

Wounded  with  beauty  in  the  summer  night 

Yoimg  Idas  tossed  upon  his  couch,  and  cried 

"  Marpessa,  O  Marpessa  !  "     From  the  dark 

The  floating  smell  of  flowers  invisible, 

The  mystic  yearning  of  the  garden  wet,  5 

The  moonless-passing  night  —  into  his  brain 

Wandered,  until  he  rose  and  outward  leaned 

In  the  dim  summer :  'twas  the  moment  deep 

When  we  are  conscious  of  the  secret  dawn, 

Amid  the  darkness  that  we  feel  is  green.  10 

To  Idas  had  Marpessa  been  revealed, 

Roaming  with  morning  thoughts  amid  the  dew, 

All  fresh  from  sleeping ;  and  upon  her  cheek 

The  bloom  of  pure  reposfe ;  like  perfect  fruit 

Even  at  the  moment  was  her  beauty  ripe.  15 

The  god  Apollo  from  the  heaven  of  heavens 

Her  mortal  sweetness  through  the  air  allured ; 

And  on  this  very  noon  she  shall  decide 

'Twixt  Idas  and  the  god,  take  to  herself 

A  brief  or  an  eternal  lover.     So  ao 


510  PHILLIPS 

When  the  long  day  that  glideth  without  cloud, 

The  summer  day,  was  at  her  blue  deep  hour 

Of  lilies  musical  with  busy  bliss, 

Wheli  very  light  trembled  as  with  excess, 

And  heat  was  frail,  and  every  bush  and  flower 

Was  drooping  in  the  glory  overcome ; 

They  three  together  met ;  on  the  one  side, 

Fresh  from  diffusing  light  on  all  the  world 

Apollo ;  on  the  other  without  sleep 

Idas,  and  in  the  midst  Marpessa  stood.  30 

Just  as  a  flower  after  drenching  rain. 

So  from  the  falling  of  felicity 

Her  human  beauty  glowed,  and  it  was  new ; 

The  bee  too  near  her  bosom  drowsed  and  dropped 

But  as  the  god  sprang  to  embrace  her,  they  35 

Heard  thunder,  and  a  little  afterward 

The  far  Paternal  voice,  "  Let  her  decide." 

And  as  a  flame  blown  backward  by  a  gust, 

Burned  to  and  fro  in  fury  beautiful 

The  murmuring  god ;  but  at  the  last  he  spoke,  40 

And  smiled  as  on  his  favorite  western  isle. 

*'  Marpessa,  though  no  trouble,  nor  any  pain, 

So  is  it  willed,  can  touch  me ;  but  I  live 

For  ever  in  a  deep  deliberate  bUss, 

A  spirit  sliding  through  tranquillity ;  45 

Yet  when  I  saw  thee  I  imagined  woe, 

That  thou  who  art  so  fair,  shouldst  ever  taste 

Of  the  earth-sorrow :  for  thy  life  has  been 

The  history  of  a  flower  in  the  air, 

Liable  but  to  breezes  and  to  time,  50 

As  rich  and  purposeless  as  is  the  rose : 

Thy  simple  doom  is  to  be  beautiful. 

Thee  God  created  but  to  grow,  not  strive, 

And  not  to  suffer,  merely  to  be  sweet. 

The  favorite  of  his  rains ;  and  thou  indeed  55 

Lately  upon  the  summer  wast  disclosed. 

Child,  wilt  thou  taste  of  grief  ?     On  thee  the  hours 

Shall  feed,  and  bring  thy  soul  into  the  dusk: 


MART  ESS  A  511 

Even  now  thy  face  is  hasting  to  the  dark  !  .  .  . 

But  if  thou'lt  live  with  me,  then  shalt  thou  bide  70 

In  mere  feUcity  above  the  world, 

In  peace  alive  and  moving,  where  to  stir 

Is  ecstasy,  and  thrilling  is  repose.  .  .  . 

Then  wilt  thou  die  ?     Part  with  eternal  thoughts,  81 

Lie  without  any  hope  beneath  the  grass, 

All  thy  imaginations  in  the  dust  ? 

And  all  that  tint  and  melody  and  breath, 

Which  in  their  lovely  unison  are  thou,  85 

To  be  dispersed  upon  the  whirling  sands  ! 

Thy  soul  blown  seaward  on  nocturnal  blast ! 

O  brief  and  breathing  creature,  wilt  thou  cease 

Once  having  been  ?    Thy  doom  doth  make  thee  rich. 

And  the  low  grave  doth  make  thee  exquisite.  90 

But  if  thou'lt  live  with  me,  then  will  I  kiss 

Warm  immortaUty  into  thy  hps ; 

And  I  will  carry  thee  above  the  world, 

To  share  my  ecstasy  of  flinging  beams, 

And  scattering  without  intermission  joy.  95 

And  thou  shalt  know  that  first  leap  of  the  sea 

Toward  me ;  the  grateful  upward  look  of  earth. 

Emerging  roseate  from  her  bath  of  dew,  — 

We  two  in  heaven  dancing,  —  Babylon 

Shall  flash  and  murmur,  and  cry  from  under  us,  100 

And  Nineveh  catch  fire,  and  at  our  feet 

Be  hurled  with  her  inhabitants,  and  all 

Adoring  Asia  kindle  and  hugely  bloom ;  — 

We  two  in  heaven  running,  —  continents 

Shall  lighten,  ocean  unto  ocean  flash,  105 

And  rapidly  laugh  till  all  this  world  is  warm. 

Or  since  thou  art  a  woman,  thou  shalt  have 

More  tender  tasks.  .  .  . 

Or,  —  for  I  know  thy  heart,  —  a  dearer  toil,  —  116 

To  lure  into  the  air  a  face  long  sick. 

To  gild  the  brow  that  from  its  dead  looks  up. 

To  shine  on  the  unf  orgiven  of  this  world ; 

With  slow  sweet  surgery  restore  the  brain,  120 


512  PHILLIPS 

And  to  dispel  shadows  and  shadowy  fear.'' 
When  he  had  spoken,  humbly  Idas  saidj^^- 
"  After^such  ar^menj^^hat  can^I  plead? 
Or  what  pale  promise  make  }/  Yet  since  it  is 


In  women  to  pity/rather  than  to  aspire, 
A  little  I  will  speak/  Llove  thee  then 
Not  only  for  thy  body/packed  with  sweet 
Of  all  this  world, /that  cup  oL  brimming  June, 
That  jar  of  vipl^  wine^e^  in 'tne  air. 
That  palest  rose  sweeten  the  night  of  life ; 
Nor  for  that  stirring  bosom  all  besieged 
By  drowsing  lovers,  or  thy  perilous  hair ; 
Nor  for  that  face  that  might  indeed  provoke 
Invasion  of  old  cities ;  no,  nor  all 
Thy  freshness  stealing  on  me  like  strange  sleep. 
Not  for  this  only  do  I  love  thee,  but 
Because  Infinity  upon  thee  broods ; 
And  thou  art  lull  ot  whispers  and  of  shadows. 
Thou  meanest  what  the  sea  has  striven  to  say 
So  long,  and  yearned  up  the  cliffs  to  tell ; 
Thou  art  what  all  the  winds  have  uttered  not, 
What  the  still  night  suggesteth  to  the  heart. 
Thy  voice  is  like  to  music  heard  ere  birth. 
Some  spirit  lute  touched  on  a  spirit  sea  ;^ 
Thy  face  remembered  is  from  other  worlds. 
It  has  been  died  for,  though  I  know  not  when, 
It  has  been  sung  of,  though  I  know  not  where. 
O  beauty  lone  and  like  a  candle  clear 
In  this  dark  country  of  the  world  !     Thou  art 
My  woe,  my  early  Ught,  my  musi6  dying." 


As  he  was  speaking,  she  with  lips,  apart  155 

Breathed,  and  with  dimmer  eyes  leaned  through  the  air 

As  one  in  dream,  and  now  his  human  hand 

Took  in  her  own ;  and  to  Apollo  spoke : 

"  O  gradual  rose  of  the  dim  universe ! 

Whose  warmth  steals  through  the  grave  unto  the  dead,  160 

Soul  of  the  early  sky,  the  priest  of  bloom  ! 

Who  beautifully  goest  in  the  West,  ;  . 


MARPESSA  513 

Attracting  as  to  an  eternal  home 
The  yearning  soul !  .  .  . 

Fain  would  I  know  166 

Yon  heavenly  wafting  through  the  heaven  wide, 
And  the  large  view  of  the  subjected  seas, 
And  famous  cities,  and  the  various  toil 
Of  men  :  all  Asia  at  my  feet  spread  out  17- 

In  indolent  magnificence  of  bloom  ! 
Africa  in  her  matted  hair  obscured. 
And  India  in  meditation  plunged  ! 
Then  the  deUght  of  flinging  the  sunbeams. 
Diffusing  silent  bUss ;  and  yet  more  sweet,  —  175 

To  cherish  fruit  on  the  warm  wall ;  to  raise 
Out  of  the  tomb  to  glory  the  pale  wheat, 
Serene  ascension  by  the  rain  prepared ; 
To  work  with  the  benignly  falUng  hours. 
And  beautiful  slow  Time.     But  dearest,  this,  180 

To  gild  the  face  that  from  its  dead  looks  up, 
To  shine  on  the  rejected,  and  arrive 
To  women  that  remember  in  the  night ; 
Or  mend  with  sweetest  surgery  the  mind. 
And  yet,  forgive  me  if  I  can  but  speak  185 

Most  human  words.     Of  immortality 
Thou  singest :  thou  would'st  hold  me  from  the  ground. 
And  this  just  opening  beauty  from  the  grave. 
As  yet  I  have  known  no  sorrow ;  all  my  days 
Like  perfect  liUes  under  water  stir,  190 

And  God  has  sheltered  me  from  his  own  wind ; 
The  darling  of  his  breezes  have  I  been. 
Yet  as  to  one  inland,  that  dreameth  lone. 
Sea-faring  men  with  their  sea-weary  eyes. 
Round  the  inn-fire  tell  of  some  foreign  land ;  19s 

So  aged  men,  much  tossed  about  in  life. 
Have  told  me  of  that  country,  Sorrow  far. 
How  many  goodly  ships  at  anchor  lie 
Within  her  ports ;  even  to  me  indeed 
Hath  a  sea-rumor  through  the  night  been  borne.  200 

And  I  myself  remember,  and  have  heard, 

2  L 


514  PHILLIPS 

Of  men  that  did  believe,  women  that  loved 

That  were  unhappy  long  and  now  are  dead, 

With  wounds  that  no  eternity  can  close, 

Life  had  so  marked  them ;  or  of  others  who  205 

Panted  toward  their  end,  and  fell  on  death 

Even  as  sobbing  runners  breast  the  rope. 

And  most  I  remember  of  all  human  things 

My  mother ;  often  as  a  child  I  pressed 

My  face  against  her  cheek,  and  felt  her  tears ;  210 

Even  as  she  smiled  on  me,  her  eyes  would  fill, 

Until  my  own  grew  ignorantly  wet ; 

And  I  in  silence  wondered  at  sorrow. 

When  I  remember  this,  how  shall  I  know 

That  I  myself  may  not,  by  sorrow  taught,  215 

Accept  the  perfect  stillness  of  the  ground  ?  .  .  . 

Or  if  there  be  some  other  world,  with  no 

Bloom,  neither  rippling  sound,  nor  early  smell. 

Nor  leaves,  nor  pleasant  exchange  of  human  speech ; 

Only  a  dreadful  pacing  to  and  fro  225 

Of  spirits  meditating  on  the  sun ; 

A  land  of  bared  boughs  and  grieving  wind ; 

Yet  would  I  not  forego  the  doom,  the  place. 

Whither  my  poets  and  my  heroes  went 

Before  me ;  warriors  that  with  deeds  forlorn  230 

Saddened  my  youth,  yet  made  it  great  to  Hve ; 

Lonely  antagonists  of  Destiny, 

That  went  down  scornful  before  many  spears, 

Who  soon  as  we  are  born,  are  straight  our  friends ; 

And  live  in  simple  music,  country  songs,  235 

And  mournful  ballads  by  the  winter  fire. 

Since  they  have  died ;  their  death  is  ever  mine ; 

I  would  not  lose  it.     Then,  thou  speak'st  of  joy, 

Of  immortality  without  one  sigh. 

Existence  without  tears  for  evermore.  240 

Thou  would'st  preserve  me  from  the  anguish,  lest 

This  holy  face  into  the  dark  return. 

Yet  I  being  human,  human  sorrow  miss. 

The  half  of  music,  I  have  heard  men  say. 


MARPESSA  515 

Is  to  have  grieved ;  when  comes  the  lonely  wail  245 

Over  the  mind ;  old  men  have  told  it  me 

Subdued  after  long  life  by  simple  sounds.  ... 

To  all  this  sorrow  was  I  born,  and  since 

Out  of  a  human  womb  I  came,  I  am  260 

Not  eager  to  forego  it ;  I  would  scorn 

To  elude  the  heaviness  and  take  the  joy, 

For  pain  came  with  the  sap,  pangs  with  the  bloom : 

This  is  the  sting,  the  wonder.     Yet  should  I 

Linger  beside  thee  in  felicity,  265 

Sliding  with  open  eyes  through  liquid  bliss 

For  ever ;  still  I  must  grow  old.     Ah  I 

Should  ail  beside  thee,  Apollo,  and  should  note 

With  eyes  that  would  not  be,  but  yet  are  dim, 

Ever  so  slight  a  change  from  day  to  day  270 

In  thee  my  husband ;  watch  thee  nudge  thyself 

To  little  offices  that  once  were  sweet : 

Slow  where  thou  once  wert  swift,  remembering 

To  kiss  those  lips  which  once  thou  couldst  not  leave.  .  .  . 

But  if  I  Uve  with  Idas,  then  we  two  282 

On  the  low  earth  shall  prosper  hand  in  hand 

In  odors  of  the  open  field,  and  live 

In  peaceful  noises  of  the  farm,  and  watch  285 

The  pastoral  fields  burned  by  the  setting  sun. 

And  he  shall  give  me  passionate  children,  not 

Some  radiant  god  that  will  despise  me  quite, 

But  clambering  limbs  and  Uttle  hearts  that  err.  .  .  . 

And  though  the  first  sweet  sting  of  love  be  past,  ,  296 

The  sweet  that  almost  venom  is ;  though  youth, 

With  tender  and  extravagant  delight, 

The  first  and  secret  kiss  by  twilight  hedge, 

The  insane  farewell  repeated  o'er  and  o'er,  '     300 

Pass  off ;  there  shall  succeed  a  faithful  peace ; 

Beautiful  friendship  tried  by  sun  and  wind, 

Durable  from  the  daily  dust  of  life. 

And  though  with  sadder,  still  with  kinder  eyes. 

We  shall  behold  all  frailties,  we  shall  haste  305 

To  pardon,  and  with  mellowing  minds  to  bless. 


5l6  PHILLIPS 

Then  though  we  must  grow  old,  we  shall  grow  old 

Together,  and  he  shall  not  greatly  miss 

My  bloom  faded,  and  waning  Ught  of  eyes. 

Too  deeply  gazed  in  ever  to  seem  dim;  310 

Nor  shall  we  murmur  at,  nor  much  regret 

The  years  that  gently  bend  us  to  the  ground, 

And  gradually  incline  our  face ;  that  we 

Leisurely  stooping,  and  with  each  slow  step, 

May  curiously  inspect  our  lasting  home.  31s 

But  we  shall  sit  with  luminous  holy  smiles. 

Endeared  by  many  griefs,  by  many  a  jest, 

And  custom  sweet  of  living  side  by  side ; 

And  full  of  memories  not  unkindly  glance 

Upon  each  other.     Last,  we  shall  descend  320 

Into  the  natural  ground  —  not  without  tears  — 

One  must  go  first,  ah  god  !  one  must  go  first ; 

After  so  long  one  blow  for  both  were  good ; 

Still  like  old  friends,  glad  to  have  met,  and  leave 

Behind  a  wholesome  memory  on  the  earth.  325 

And  thou,  beautiful  god,  in  that  far  time. 

When  in  thy  setting  sweet  thou  gazest  down 

On  this  grey  head,  wilt  thou  remember  then 

That  once  I  pleased  thee,  that  I  once  was  young  ?  " 

When  she  had  spoken,  Idas  with  one  cry  330 

Held  her,  and  there  was  silence ;  while  the  god 

In  anger  disappeared.     Then  slowly  they. 

He  looking  downward,  and  she  gazing  up. 

Into  the  evening  green  wandered  away. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  TWENTIETH   CENTURY 

I.   GEORGIAN  POETRY 

In  December,  191 2,  the  poetby  bookshop  of  London  issued  un- 
der the  title  Georgian  Poetry  igii-igi2,  a  collection  of  poems  that 
had  been  published  since  the  accession  of  George  V  in  19 10.  The 
Preface  opens  with  these  words :  "This  volume  is  issued  in  the  belief 
that  English  poetry  is  now  once  again  putting  on  a  new  strength  and 
beauty  .  .  .  and  that  we  are  at  the  beginning  of  another  '  Georgian 
period '  which  may  take  rank  in  due  time  with  the  several  great  poetic 
ages  of  the  past."  Whether  or  not  this  expectation  will  be  realized 
remains  to  be  seen,  and  if  the  universal  disturbance  of  old  customs 
and  ideas  brought  on  by  the  Great  War  has  made  the  hope  keener,  it 
has  made  prophecy  harder.  What  may  be  the  subjects,  the  mood, 
the  manner  of  the  new  poetry  and  who  may  be  the  proved  fire-bringers 
it  is  too  soon  to  say.     The  genius  of  such  writers  as  Walter  de  la 

MARE,  ALFRED  NOYES,  JOHN  MASEFIELD,  JAMES  STEPHENS,  W.  W. 
GIBSON,    SEUMAS    O'SULLIVAN,    RUPERT    BROOKE,    JOHN    DRINKWATER, 

LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE,  w.  H.  DAViES,  and  Others  has  enriched 
English  poetry  with  novel  and  varied  strains,  and  in  some  cases  also 
with  volume  of  production,  but  we  cannot  determine  the  scope  of  those 
who  still  live  and  write,  or  label  them  according  to  schools  and  tend- 
encies, or  foresee  the  ultimate  quality  of  their  contribution  to  English 
poetry.  Each  has  his  distinctive  art,  his  pecuKar  merit ;  but  each 
continues  to  show  new  powers  or,  at  least,  new  phases  of  power.  We 
may,  therefore,  pass  at  once  to  the  consideration  of  several  of  them 
as  individuals.  For  the  convenience  of  readers  poems  treating  of  the 
War  have  been  placed  in  a  separate  section,  succeeding  this. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE   (1873-        ) 

From  Professor  W.  L.  Phelps's  interesting  review.  The  Advance  of 
English  Poetry  in  the  Twentieth  Century  (N.  Y.,  1918,  Dodd,  Mead, 
&  Co.),  we  quote  the  following :  "Walter  de  la  Mare,  a  close  personal 

517 


I 


5l8  THE   TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

friend  of  Rupert  Brooke,  came  of  Huguenot,  English,  and  Scotch  an- 
cestry, and  was  born  at  Charlton,  Kent,  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  April, 
1873.  He  was  educated  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  Choir  School.  Al- 
though known  to-day  exclusively  as  a  poet,  he  has  written  much 
miscellaneous  prose  —  critical  articles  for  periodicals,  short  stories, 
and  a  few  plays.  His  first  poetry-book,  Songs  of  Childhood,  appeared 
in  1902 ;  in  1906,  Poems;  in  1910,  The  i?dwrw,  which  won  the  Edmond 
de  Polignac  prize;  The  Listeners,  which  gave  him  wide  reputation, 
appeared  in  191 2;  Peacock  Pie  [children's  verses],  in  19 13,  and 
Motley  and  Other  Poems  in  19 18." 

Mr.  De  la  Mare's  poetry  is  not  a  contribution  by  way  of  revolt, 
prophecy,  or  argument  to  the  mighty  economic  and  philosophical 
debates  of  the  present  age ;  neither  is  it  a  mere  reminiscence  of  the 
great  singing  measures  of  the  earlier  Victorian  masters.  Quietly, 
lovingly,  without  being  turned  from  his  purpose  by  pain  of  criticism 
or  pursuit  of  applause,  he  has  piir.^TieH^in  his  owiWashion  his  chosen 
subjects :  the  ways,  fancies,  and  rnemories  of  chUdhopd;  old  famiUar 
^Faces  and  places,  or  well-known  characters  ^'^  bwl^s,  ^''  '^HnVftEppqrp^c ;'_ 
ItHe  sequence  of  the  seasons  and  the  procession  of  flowers ;  our  mystical 
kinship  with  the  powers  and  presences  of  nature  ffiat  r^^^on  cannot 
^apprehend  or  analyze.  He  has  a  gift  for  revealing  the  romance  of  in- 
nocence. Biiralter  all,  as  one  critic  has  well  remarked,  it  is  because 
he  is  a  child  of  his  age  that  he  has  observed  children  so  lovingly.  All 
young  people  dehght  in  his  poetry,  because  of  its  bewitching  and  un- 
expected fancy,  its  divination  of  what  they  thought  they  alone  had  dis- 
covered, its  moving  images,  its  unequalled  music.  His  method  is  very 
^largely  descriptive  and  he  has  a  genius  for  perceiving  salient  details  in 
very  different  subjects,  yet  all  his  work  reveals  a  certain  inimitable 
delicacy  and  tact,  a  lovely  and  graceful  sympathy,  almost  shy,  when  he 
hints  at  the  intangible  quintessence  of  his  subject,  —  be  it  the  child's 
account  of  how  "he  came"  as  a  wee  bird,  or  the  child's  sense  of  a  Hv- 
ing  presence  in  the  little  green  orchard,  or  the  melancholy  of  the 
"  widowed  "  donkey,  Nicholas  Nye,  brooding  like  a  ghost,  "  as  still  as  a 
post,"  or  the  tender,  lovely  things,  "clear  flowers  and  tiny  wings,"  that 
cheer  Poor  Miss  7,  or  the  weird  reaHsm  of  that  obHvious  reader  of  ro- 
mance, Old  Susan.  These  memories  and  interpretations  are  priceless, 
for  they  have  that  rare  quality  of  excellence  —  they  become  one's  own 
as  soon  as  they  have  been  read.  They  have  inevitability.  The 
quiet  and  almost  supernatural  beauty  of  his  poems  appeals,  even 
more  than  to  children,  to  those  who  have  had  some  experience  of  life 
and  know  how  rarely  one  has  a  glimpse  of  perfection,  how  much  more 


PEACOCK  PIE  519 

rarely  one  can  capture  that  glimpse.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say- 
that  in  music,  imagery,  phrase  and  magical  insight  his  lyrics  are  as 
lovely  as  any  in  the  language.  They  awaken  in  those  who  no  longer 
are  children  faculties  long  since  disused.  They  restore  to  us  the  mood 
of  kindly  attention  to  the  subtle,  gracious,  unworded  things  that  are 
present  about  us,  on  every  hand.  We  too,  to  copy  the  title  of  his  most 
important  book,  become  Listeners,  while  the  untrammelled,  unhurried 
soul  gathers  a  blessing  from  the  simple  ways  of  trees  and  birds,  children 
and  animals,  old  faces  and  old  habits,  and  from  the  never  aging 
sympathies  of  the  heart.  Recently,  a  writer  in  the  London  Times 
has  said  of  Mr.  De  la  Mare  that  he  is  "one  of  the  greatest  of  modern 
poets."  From  such  sweeping  attribution  of  eminence  we  are  sure 
that  Mr.  De  la  Mare  would  instinctively  shrink.  Greatness  is  for 
the  generations  to  decide.  Of  the  Georgian  poets  he  is  the  most 
exquisitely  imaginative  and  musical,  because  his  Muse  is  the  most 
artistically  conscientious:  selective  of  its  themes  and  frugal  of  its 
bird-like  notes.  With  the  further  assertion  that  "of  all  our  Eng- 
lish poets  there  is  none  who  has  written  with  more  of  the  child's 
strange  freshness  of  imagination"  many,  though  mindful  of  the  merit 
of  Stevenson,  will  agree. 


POEMS   FROM  PEACOCK  PIE  1 

I.     THE    LITTLE    BIRD 

My  dear  Daddie  bought  a  mansion 
^,  For  to  bring  my  Mammie  to, 

In  a  hat  with  a  long  feather, 

And  a  trailing  gown  of  blue ; 
And  a  company  of  fiddlers  s 

And  a  rout  of  maids  and  men 
Danced  the  clock  round  to  the  morning, 

In  a  gay  house-warming  then. 
And  when  all  the  guests  were  gone,  and 

All  was  still  as  still  can  be,  10 

In  from  the  dark  ivy  hopped  a 

Wee  small  bird :  and  that  was  Me. 

^  1  The  following  poems  from  Mr.  De  la  Mare's  Peacock  Pie  and  The  Listeners  are 
printed  with  the  permission  of  the  publisher,  Henry  Holt  and  Co. 


;20  DE  LA    MARE 


II.     THE    LITTLE    GREEN    ORCilARD 

Some  one  is  always  sitting  there,  / 

/    ^     J         ^     ,       in^the  little  green  orchard; 
'^^^Even  when  the  sun  is  high 

In  noon's  unclouded  sky,  4 

And  faintly  droning  goes 
The  bee  from  r6se  to  rose. 
Some  one  in  shadow  is  sitting  there,       '      ^ 

In  the  little  green  orchard.  8 

Yes,  and  when  twilight's  falling  softly 

On  the  little  green  orchard ; 
When  the  grey  dew  distils 

And  every  flower-cup  fills ;  12 

When  the  last  blackbird  says, 
*  What-what !  '  and  goes  her  way  —  ssh  ! 
I  have  heard  voices  calling  softly 

In  the  little  green  orchard.  16 

Not  that  I  am  afraid  of  being  there. 

In  the  little  green  orchard,  — 
Why,  when  the  moon's  been  bright. 
Shedding  her  lonesome  light,  20 

And  moths  like  ghosties  come. 
And  the  horned  snail  leaves  home : 
I've  sat  there,  whispering  and  listening  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard.  24 

Only  it's  strange  to  be  feeling  there. 

In  the  little  green  orchard ; 
Whether  you  paint  or  draw. 

Dig,  hammer,  chop,  or  saw ;  28 

When  you  are  most  alone. 

All  but  the  silence  gone  ...  \ 

Some  one  is  waiting  and  watching  there. 

In  the  little  green  orchard.  32 


PEACOCK   PIE  521 

III.     NICHOLAS    NYE 

Thistle  and  darnel  and  dock  grew  there, 

And  a  bush,  in  the  corner,  of  may. 
On  the  orchard  wall  I  used  to  sprawl 

In  the  blazing  heat  of  the  day ;  4 

Half  asleep  and  half  awake, 

While  the  birds  went  twittering  by, 
And  nobody  there  my  lone  to  share 

But  Nicholas  Nye.  8 

Nicholas  Nye  was  lean  and  grey, 

Lame  of  a  leg  and  old, 
More  than  a  score  of  donkey's  years 

He  had  seen  since  he  was  foaled ;  12 

He  munched  the  thistles,  purple  and  spiked, 

Would  sometimes  stoop  and  sigh, 
And  turn  to  his  head,  as  if  he  said, 

''  Poor  Nicholas  Nye  !  "  16 

Alone  with  his  shadow  he'd  drowse  in  the  meadow. 

Lazily  swinging  his  tail. 
At  break  of  day  he  used  to  bray,  — 

Not  much  too  hearty  and  hale ;  20 

But  a  wonderful  gumption  was  under  his  skin. 

And  a  clear  calm  light  in  his  eye, 
And  once  in  a  while  :  he'd  smile  :  — 

Would  Nicholas  Nye.  24 

Seem  to  be  smiling  at  me,  he  would, 

From  his  bush  in  the  corner,  of  may,  — 
Bony  and  ownerless,  widowed  and  worn, 

Knobble-kneed,  lonely  and  grey ;  28 

And  over  the  grass  would  seem  to  pass 

'Neath  the  deep  dark  blue  of  the  sky, 
Something  much  better  than  words  between  me 

And  Nicholas  Nye.  32 


522  DE  LA   MARE 

But  dusk  would  come  in  the  apple  boughs, 

The  green  of  the  glow-worm  shine, 
The  birds  in  nest  would  crouch  to  rest, 

And  home  I'd  trudge  to  mine ;  36 

And  there,  in  the  moonhght,  dark  with  dew, 

Asking  not  wherefore  nor  why. 
Would  brood  like  a  ghost,  and  as  still  as  a  post, 

Old  Nicholas  Nye.  40 


IV.  POOR   "miss   7" 

Lone  and  alone  she  lies. 

Poor  Miss  7, 
Five  steep  flights  from  the  earth, 

And  one  from  heaven ;  4 

Dark  hair  and  dark  brown  eyes,  — 
Not  to  be  sad  she  tries, 
Still  —  still  it's  lonely  lies 

Poor  Miss  7.  8 

One  day4ong  watch  hath  she. 

Poor  Miss  7, 
Not  in  some  orchard  sweet 

In  April  Devon,  —  12 

Just  four  blank  walls  to  see, 
And  dark  come  shadowily. 
No  moon,  no  stars,  ah  me  ! 

Poor  Miss  7.  16 

And  then  to  wake  again, 

Poor  Miss  7, 
To  the  cold  night,  to  have 

Sour  physic  given ;  20 

Out  of  some  dream  of  pain. 
Then  strive  long  hours  in  vain 
Deep  dreamless  sleep  to  gain: 

Poor  Miss  7.  24 


PEACOCK  PIE  523 

Yet  memory  softly  sings 

Poor  Miss  7 
Songs  full  of  love  and  peace 

And  gladness  even ;  28 

Clear  flowers  and  tiny  wings, 
All  tender,  lovely  things, 
Hope  to  her  bosom  brings  — 

Happy  Miss  7.  32 


V.    TIT  FOR  TAT 

Have  you  been  catching  of  fish,  Tom  Noddy  ? 

Have  you  snared  a  weeping  hare  ? 
Have  you  whistled,  ''No  Nunny,"  and  gunned  a  poor  bunny, 

Or  a  blinded  bird  of  the  air  ? 


Have  you  trod  like  a  murderer  through  the  green  woods. 
Through  the  dewy  deep  dingles  and  glooms. 

While  every  small  creature  screamed  shrill  to  Dame  Nature, 
"  He  comes  —  and  he  comes  !  " 


Wonder  I  very  much  do,  Tom  Noddy, 

If  ever,  when  you  are  a-roam. 
An  Ogre  from  space  will  stoop  a  lean  face, 

And  lug  you  home :  12 

Lug  you  home  over  his  fence,  Tom  Noddy, 

Of  thorn-stocks  nine  yards  high. 
With  your  bent  knees  strung  round  his  old  iron  gun 

And  your  head  dan-dangling  by :  16 

And  hang  you  up  stiff  on  a  hook,  Tom  Noddy, 

From  a  stone-cold  pantry  shelf. 
Whence  your  eyes  will  glare  in  an  empty  stare, 

Till  you  are  cooked  yourself !  20 


524  DE  LA   MARE 

VI.    THE    TRUANTS 

Ere  my  heart  beats  too  coldly  and  faintly 

To  remember  sad  things,  yet  be  gay,  I 

I  would  sing  a  brief  song  of  the  world's  little  children 

Magic  hath  stolen  away.  4 

The  primroses  scattered  by  April,  f 

The  stars  of  the  wide  Milky  Way, 
Cannot  outnumber  the  hosts  of  the  children 

Magic  hath  stolen  away.  8 

The  buttercup  green  of  the  meadows. 

The  snow  of  the  blossoming  may. 
Lovelier  are  not  than  the  legions  of  children 

Magic  hath  stolen  away.  12 

The  waves  tossing  surf  in  the  moonbeam. 

The  albatross  lone  on  the  spray, 
Alone  know  the  tears  wept  in  vain  for  the  children 

Magic  hath  stolen  away.  16 

In  vain :  for  at  hush  of  the  evening, 

When  the  stars  twinkle  into  the  grey. 
Seems  to  echo  the  far-away  calling  of  children 

Magic  hath  stolen  away.  20 

VII.     ALL    BUT    BLIND 

All  but  blind 

In  his  chambered  hole 
Gropes  for  worms 

The  four-clawed  Mole.  4 

All  but  blind  I 

In  the  evening  sky 
The  hooded  Bat  ^ 

Twirls  softly  by.  u  8 


MISS  LOO  S^S 

All  but  blind 

In  the  burning  day 
The  Barn-Owl  blunders 

On  her  way.  12 

And  blind  as  are 

These  three  to  me, 
So,  blind  to  Some-one 

I  must  be.  i6 


MISS  LOO 

When  thin-strewn  memory  I  look  through, 

I  see  most  clearly  poor  Miss  Loo, 

Her  tabby  cat,  her  cage  of  birds, 

Her  nose,  her  hair  —  her  muffled  words. 

And  how  she'd  open  her  green  eyes,  s 

As  if  in  some  immense  surprise, 

Whenever,  as  we  sat  at  tea, 

She  made  some  small  remark  to  me. 

It's  always  drowsy  summer  when 

From  out  the  past  she  comes  again ;  10 

The  westering  sunshine  in  a  pool 

Floats  in  her  parlor  still  and  cool ; 

While  the  slim  bird  its  lean  wires  shakes. 

As  into  piercing  song  it  breaks ; 

Till  Peter's  pale-green  eyes  ajar  15 

Dream,  wake ;  wake,  dream,  in  one  brief  bar ; 

And  I  am  sitting,  dull  and  shy, 

And  she  with  gaze  of  vacancy. 

And  large  hands  folded  on  the  tray, 

Musing  the  afternoon  away ;  20 

Her  satin  bosom  heaving  slow 

With  sighs  that  softly  ebb  and  flow. 

And  her  plain  face  in  such  dismay. 

It  seems  unkind  to  look  her  way : 


526  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

Until  all  cheerful  back  will  come  25 

Her  cheerful  gleaming  spirit  home : 
And  one  would  think  that  poor  Miss  Loo 
Asked  nothing  else,  if  she  had  you. 

OLD   SUSAN 

When  Susan's  work  was  done  she'd  sit, 

With  one  fat  guttering  candle  lit, 

And  window  opened  wide  to  win 

The  sweet  night  air  to  enter  in ; 

There,  with  a  thumb  to  keep  her  place      "  s 

She'd  read,  with  stern  and  wrinkled  face, 

Her  mild  eyes  gliding  very  slow 

Across  the  letters  to  and  fro. 

While  wagged  the  guttering  candle  flame 

Li  the  wind  that  through  the  window  came.  10 

And  sometimes  in  the  silence  she 

Would  mumble  a  sentence  audibly. 

Or  shake  her  head  as  if  to  say, 

"  You  silly  souls,  to  act  this  way  !  " 

And  never  a  sound  from  night  I'd  hear,  is 

Unless  some  f ar-oflf  cock  crowed  clear ; 

Or  her  old  shuffling  thumb  should  turn 

Another  page ;  and  rapt  and  stem. 

Through  her  great  glasses  bent  on  me 

She'd  glance  into  reality ;  20 

And  shake  her  round  old  silvery  head, 

With  —  "  You  !  —  I  thought  you  was  in  bed  !  "  — 

Only  to  tilt  her  book  again. 

And  rooted  in  Romance  remain. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD   (1874-        ) 

John  Masefield,  the  most  sutcessful  poet  of  the  life  of  the  common 
people  of  England,  has  had  a  career  of  romantic  interest.  He  was  bom 
in  the  west  of  England,  at  Ledbury,  in  1874,  He  was  trained  for  the 
sea,  but  had  a  good  lower-school  education,  was  fond  of  poetry,  and 


JOHN  MASEPIELD  527 

wrote  verses  from  the  time  he  was  nine  years  old.  "He  ran  away 
from  home,  shipped  as  cabin  boy  on  a  sailing  vessel,  spent  some  years 
before  the  mast,  tramped  on  foot  through  various  countries,  turned 
up  in  New  York,  worked  in  the  old  Columbia  Hotel  in  Greenwich 
Avenue,  and  had  plenty  of  opportunity  to  study  himian  nature  in 
the  bar-room.  Then  he  entered  a  carpet  factory  in  the  Bronx.  But 
he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  become  a  carpet  knight.  He 
bought  [in  1896]  a  copy  of  Chaucer's  poems,  stayed  up  till  dawn 
reading  it,  and  for  the  first  time  was  sure  of  his  future  occupation.  .  .  . 
While  he  draws  his  themes  and  his  heroes  from  his  own  experience,  his 
inspiration  as  a  poet  comes  directly  from  Chaucer,  who  died  in  1400. 
He  is,  indeed,  the  Chaucer  of  to-day ;  the  most  closely  akin  to  Chaucer 
—  not  only  in  temperament,  but  in  literary  manner  —  of  all  the 
writers  of  the  twentieth  century"  (W.  L.  Phelps,  Advance  of  English 
Poetry  in  the  Twentieth  Century,  pp.  71-73). 

Mr.  Masefield's  longer  poems  interest  the  boy  at  play,  the  man 
on  the  street,  and  the  girl  in  the  shop  who  have  read  short-stories 
and  adventure  novels  but  have  always  been  bored  by  "poetry." 
His  narratives  are  thrilling  in  plot  and  situation,  the  characters  are 
tremendously  real  and  passionate  —  "men  of  the  tattered  battalion 
which  fights  till  it  dies  " ;  the  diction  is  direct,  coUoquial,  and  forceful, 
the  manner  realistic,  and  the  motive  always  true  to  life.  His  appeal 
is  instantaneous.  He  begins  his  stories  very  simply,  in  a  con- 
versational style,  like  Chaucer,  and  takes  you  into  his  con- 
fidence at  once;  step  by  step  he  builds  up  dramatic  interest: 
with  vivid  details  a  character  is  revealed  whom  one  must  know 
more  of,  or  a  situation  which  compels  one  to  follow  to  the 
finish.  Then  the  reader  is  in  the  very  midst  of  rapid  action.  It 
fills  his  ears,  dazzles  his  sight,  and  rains  blows  upon  his  head. 
The  characters  run  away  with  him  as  they  do  with  the  story. 
The  language  of  passion  drums  and  then  turns  to  thunder  and 
lightning.  Out  of  his  own  experiences  with  the  scorned  and 
rejected  the  poet  creates  men  and  women  of  the  masses  — 
many  brutal,  all  passionate,  driven  by  their  desires  or  driving  by 
their  will  —  elemental,  inevitable,  tragic.  Out  of  his  own  experience 
he  summons  the  tasks  and  moments  that  try  men's  souls,  —  that 
gather  men  up  in  a  whirlwind  and  toss  them  like  rags  and  splinters, 
and  leave  them  for  what  they  are  —  masters  or  fcdlures.  Always, 
calm  and  impertiu-bable  in  the  backgroimd  or  participating  in  the 
event,  is  nature,  responsive  to  the  poet's  intimate  touch.  Dauber^ 
written  in  191 2,  is  such  a  story,  and  so  too  are  The  Everl<isting  Mercy 


528  THE   TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

and  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street  (191 1)  and  The  Daffodil  Fields  (19 12). 
It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  poem  more  sublime  in  its  description  of 
the  sea,  more  nobly  pathetic  in  its  portrayal  of  devotion  to  an  ideal 
than  Dauber.  Entirely  different  in  theme  from  these,  but  not 
in  spirit,  is  the  reaUstic  and  breathlessly  interesting  hunting  story, 
Reynard  the  Fox  (19 19),  in  which  the  hunted  is  the  hero,  issuing 
triumphant.  By  many  this  is  regarded  as  the  most  characteristic  of 
Mr.  Masefield's  productions.  Whoever  reads  these  poems  forgets  not 
only  any  prejudice  he  may  have  had  against  "poetry"  but  also  realizes 
that  the  stories  would  lose  an  indescribable  but  essential  some- 
thing were  they  turned  into  prose.  One  is  transported  to  the  realm 
of  imagination,  feels  the  creative  power  of  poetry,  and  recognizes 
that  this  poet  is  a  master  of  his  art.  It  is  significant,  too,  that  Mr. 
Masefield  accomplishes  his  rhythmic  effects  not  by  ostentatiously 
revolting  from  symmetry  in  metrical  design  but  by  using  the  old- 
time  verse  forms  and  stanzas :  as  in  Dauber,  The  Widow  in  the 
Bye  Street,  and,  with  a  slight  variation,  in  Daffodil  Fields,  Chaucer's 
harmonious  arrangement,  the  rhyme  royal ;  or,  as  in  The  River, 
The  Wanderer,  and  August,  1914,  the  four-line  stanza  of  Gray's  Elegy; 
or,  as  in  Rosas,  the  six-line  stanza  of  Rule  Britannia;  or,  as  in  The 
Everlasting  Mercy,  the  tetrameter  couplet. 

In  A  Consecration  Mr.  Masefield  dedicates  his  genius  to  the  "just 
plain-folk,"  —  the  army  of  privates  of  whom  he  is  the  laureate  by 
special  gift  and  knowledge.  Other  poems  of  the  same  sort  of  subject 
and  with  the  same  vivid  picturing  may  be  found  in  Salt-Water  Ballads 
and  in  The  Story  of  a  Round  House.  The  Wanderer,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  one  of  the  quietest  of  his  many  songs  of  the  sea.  Noblest  of 
his  poems,  and  one  of  the  most  profound  of  modern  poems  of  war 
and  love  of  country,  is  August,  1914.  It  recalls  Gray's  Elegy  not 
only  by  its  metre  but  by  its  spirituality,  and  it  graciously  renews  the 
magnanimity  and  benediction  of  the  older  poem  for  these  later  days 
that  have  indeed  tried  men's  souls.  But  through  all  Mr.  Masefield's 
work,  as  through  his  Dauber's  quest,  no  matter  how  sordid  the  life 
or  vain  the  effort,  there  breathes  an  inspiration  and  consolation  su- 
preme,-— the  "joy  of  trying  for  beauty,  the  balm  of  this  world's 
way."  This  is  for  him,  as  for  Mr.  Bridges,  Mr.  Kipling,  Mr.  De  la 
Mare,  and  all  true  poets,  the  imperishable  theme.  Beauty  of  nature, 
of  human  energy,  of  emotion,  of  suffering,  of  heroism,  of  the  soul  not 
found  wanting,  —  of  such  is  the  deep  heart  and  guidance  of  poetry. 
In  the  Preface  to  his  Collected  Poems  (Macmillan,  1919)  Mr.  Mase- 
field has  said:    "Chaucer  and  Shakespeare,  some  lines  of  Gray,  of 


A   CONSECRATION  529 

Keats,  of  Wordsworth  and  of  William  Morris,  the  depth,  force,  beauty 
and  tenderness  of  the  English  mind,  are  inspiration  enough,  and 
school  enough  and  star  enough  to  urge  and  guide  in  any  night  of  the 
soul,  however  wayless  from  our  blindness  or  black  from  our  passions 
and  our  follies." 

Mr.  Masefield  has  written  also  excellent  sonnets,  dramas,  and  novels, 
and  prose  of  the  Great  War. 

'A  CONSECRATION  1    .J     -iiT  . 

Not  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers    ^^ 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap^the  fat  of  the  years,  —  tf^^*"*^ 
Rather  the  scorned  —  the  rejected  —  the  men  hemmed  in  with 
the  spears;  ^      ^^    '     '^  3     « 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 
The  men  with  the  broken  heads ^  and  the  blood  running  into 
their  eyes.  ^^->        6 

o    ,  '  ^  >  r^. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne,    • 

Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown. 

But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known,  /a»t;"^  ' 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 
The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with  the 
\         goad, 
The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load.  12 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout,  n. 
The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to  the 

shout,    ^ 

The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel ^and  the  tired  lookout.  is 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mirth, 
The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth ;  —   •*%  , 
Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the 
earth !  ■^.  18 

P  1  This  and  the  two  following  poems  are  from  Mrl  Jitasefield's  Collected  Poems 

and  Plays,  Vol.  I,  Poems,  by  permission  of  The  Macm^an  Co. 
2M 


530  MASEFIELD 

Theirs  be  the  music,  the  color,  the  glory,  the  gold ; 
Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 
Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the 
cold  —  21 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told.    ^  x. 


V  ^■■^■ 


S' 


DAUBER 

(Selections) 

He  was  the  painter  m  that  swift  ship's  crew, 

Lampman  and  painter  —  tall,  a  slight-built  man, 

Young  for  his  years,  and  not  yet  twenty- two ; 

Sickly,  and  not  yet  brown  with  the  sea's  tan. 

Bullied  and  damned  at  since  the  voyage  began, 

"  Being  neither  man  nor  seaman  by  his  tally," 

He  bunked  with  the  idlers  just  abaft  the  galley.  7 

His  work  began  at  five ;  he  worked  all  day. 

Keeping  no  watch  and  having  all  night  in. 

His  work  was  what  the  mate  might  care  to  say ; 

He  mixed  red  lead  in  many  a  bouilli  tin ; 

His  dungarees  were  smeared  with  paraffin. 

"  Go  drown  himself  "  his  round-mates  advised  him. 

And  all  hands  called  him  "Dauber"  and  despised  him.  ...     14 

Si  talked  with  Dauber,  standing  by  the  side. 

*'  Why  did  you  come  to  sea,  painter  ?  ^'  he  said. 

''  I  want  to  be  a  painter,"  he  replied, 

"  And  know  the  sea  and  ships  from  A  to  Z, 

And  paint  great  ships  at  sea  before  I'm  dead ; 

Ships  under  skysails  running  down  the  Trade  — 

Ships  and  the  sea ;  there's  nothing  finer  made.  21 

*'  But  there's  so  much  to  learn,  with  sails  and  ropes. 

And  how  the  sails  look,  full  or  being  furled. 

And  how  the  lights  change  in  the  troughs  and  slopes,      ^ 


DAUBER  531 

And  the  sea's  colors  up  and  down  the  world, 

And  how  a  storm  looks  when  the  sprays  are  hurled 

High  as  the  yard  (they  say)  I  want  to  see ; 

There's  none  ashore  can  teach  such  things  to  me.  28 

"  And  then  the  men  and  rigging,  and  the  way 

Ships  move,  running  or  beating,  and  the  poise 

At  the  roll's  end,  the  checking  in  the  sway  — • 

I  want  to  paint  them  perfect,  short  of  the  noise ; 

And  then  the  life,  the  half-decks  full  of  boys, 

The  fo'c's'les  with  the  men  there,  dripping  wet ; 

I  know  the  subjects  that  I  want  to  get.  35 

"  It's  not  been  done,  the  sea,  not  yet  been  done, 
From  the  inside,  by  one  who  really  knows ; 
^    I'd  give  up  *all  if  I  could  be  the  one, 
^^""'ont  art  comes  dear  the  way  the  money  goes. 
So  I  have  come  to  sea,  and  I  suppose 
Three  years  will  teach  me  all  I  want  to  learn 
And  make  enough  to  keep  me  till  I  earn  ...  42 

^'      *'  I  cannot  get  it  yet  —  not  yet,"  he  said ; 

"  That  leap  and  light,  and  sudden  change  to  green, 
And  all  the  glittering  from  the  sunset's  red, 
And  the  milky  colors  where  the  bursts  have  been, 

;      And  then  the  clipper  striding  like  a  queen 
Over  it  all,  all  beauty  to  the  crown. 
I  see  it  all,  I  cannot  put  it  down.  49 

"  It's  hard  not  to  be  able.    There,  look  there  I 

I  cannot  get  the  movement  nor  the  light ; 

Sometimes  it  almost  makes  a  man  despair 

To  try  and  try  and  never  get  it  right. 

Oh,  if  I  could  —  oh,  if  I  only  might, 

I  wouldn't  mind  what  hells  I'd  have  to  pass. 

Not  if  the  whole  world  called  me  fool  and  ass."  ...      $6 

The  Cook  objects  to  the  smell  of  Dauber^s  wet  paintings  in  the 
round-house.     The  lad  hides  them  under  a  boat  on  the  deck-house 


532  MASEFIELD 

top  and  goes  to  bed.    Si  and  other  apprentices  smear  them  with 
turpentine,  and  lay  them  back  under  the  boat. 

All  he  had  drawn  since  first  he  came  to  sea, 

His  six  weeks'  leisure  fruits,  they  laid  them  there. 

They  chuckled  then  to  think  how  mad  he'd  be 

Finding  his  paintings  vanished  into  air. 

Eight  bells  were  struck,  and  feet  from  everywhere 

Went  shuffling  aft  to  muster  in  the  dark ; 

The  mate's  pipe  glowed  above,  a  dim  red  spark.  ...        03 

Down  in  his  bunk  the  Dauber  lay  awake 

Thinking  of  his  unfitness  for  the  sea. 

Each  failure,  each  derision,  each  mistake, 

There  in  the  life  not  made  for  such  as  he ;  . 

A  morning  grim  with  trouble  sure  to  be, 

A  noon  of  pain  from  failure,  and  a  night 

Bitter  with  men's  contemning  and  despite.  70 

This  in  the  first  beginning,  the  green  leaf, 

Still  in  the  Trades  before  bad  weather  fell ; 

What  harvest  would  he  reap  of  hate  and  grief 

When  the  loud  Horn  made  every  life  a  hell  ? 

When  the  sick  ship  lay  over,  clanging  her  bell, 

And  no  time  came  for  painting  or  for  drawing. 

But  all  hands  fought,  and  icy  death  came  clawing  ?  .  .  .    77 

He  turned  out  of  his  bunk ;  the  Cook  still  tossed, 

One  of  the  other  two  spoke  in  his  sleep.  : 

A  cockroach  scuttled  where  the  moonbeam  crossed ; 

Outside  there  was  the  ship,  the  night,  the  deep. 

"  It  is  worth  while,"  the  youth  said ;  "  I  will  keep 

To  my  resolve,  I'll  learn  to  paint  all  this. 

My  Lord,  my  God,  how  beautiful  it  is  !  "  .  .  .  84 

Next  day  was  Sunday,  his  free  painting  day. 
While  the  fine  weather  held,  from  eight  till  eight. 
He  rose  when  called  at  five,  and  did  array 


DAUBER  533 

1/ 


The  round-house  gear,  and  set  the  kit-bags  straight ; 
Then  kneeling  down,  like  housemaid  at  a  grate,  ^^ 

He  scrubbed  the  deck  with  sand  until  his  knees 
Were  blue  with  dye  from  his  wet  dungarees.  91 


He  goes  to  fetch  his  drawings. 

Up  to  the  deck-house  top  he  quickly  climbed, 

He  stooped  to  find  them  underneath  the  boat. 

He  found  them  all  obliterated,  slimed. 

Blotted,  erased,  gone  from  him  line  and  note. 

They  were  all  spoiled ;  a  lump  came  in  his  throat. 

Being  vain  of  his  attempts,  and  tender  skinned  — 

Beneath  the  skyHght  watching  reefers  grinned.  s         98 

Sam,  one  of  the  apprentices,  derisively  suggests  that  he  complain 
to  the  Captain. 

"  Painter,"  the  Captain  called ;  the  Dauber  came. 

"  What's  all  this  talk  of  drawings  ?     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

**  They  spoiled  my  drawings,  sir."     "  Well,  who's  to  blame? 

The  long-boat's  there  for  no  one  to  get  at  her ; 

You  broke  the  rules,  and  if  you  choose  to  scatter 

Gear  up  and  down  where  it's  no  right  to  be, 

And  suffer  as  result,  don't  come  to  me."  ...  los 

The  Dauber  touched  his  brow  and  slunk  away  —  . 

They  eyed  his  going  with  a  bitter  eye.  ^^\ 

"  Dauber,"  said  Sam,  "  what  did  the  Captain  say?  '* 
The  Dauber  drooped  his  head  without  reply. 
"  Go  forward.  Dauber,  and  enjoy  your  cry."  ...  no 


s: 


e  bowed  his  head,  the  house  was  full  of  smoke ; 
The  Sails  was  pointing  shackles  on  his  chest. 
*'  Lord,  Dauber,  be  a  man  and  take  a  joke  "  — 
He  puffed  his  pipe  —  "  and  let  the  matter  rest. 
Spit  brown,  my  son,  and  get  a  hairy  breast ; 
Get  shoulders  on  you  at  the  crojick  braces, 
And  let  this  painting  business  go  to  blazes."  ...  117 


534  MASEFIELD 

The  Dauber  did  not  answer ;  time  was  passing. 
/    He  pulled  his  easel  out,  his  paints,  his  stool. 
!     The  wind  was  dropping,  and  the  sea  was  glassing  — 
New  realms  of  beauty  waited  for  his  rule ; 
The  draught  out  of  the  crojick  kept  him  cool. 
He  sat  to  paint,  alone  and  melancholy. 
**  No  turning  fools,"  the  Chips  said,  "  from  their  folly."  124 

He  dipped  his  brush  and  tried  to  fix  a  line. 
And  then  came  peace,  and  gentle  beauty  came, 
,     Turning  his  spirit's  water  into  wine, 

Lightening  his  darkness  with  a  touch  of  flame : 

O,  joy  of  trying  for  beauty,  ever  the  same, 

You  never  fail,  your  comforts  never  end ; 

O,  balm  of  this  world's  way ;  O,  perfect  friend  I  .  .  .        131 

Out  of  the  air  a  time  of  quiet  came, 

Calm  fell  upon  the  heaven  like  a  drouth ; 
i        The  brass  sky  watched  the  brassy  water  flame. 
I        Drowsed  as  a  snail  the  clipper  loitered  south 
i        Slowly,  with  no  white  bone  across  her  mouth ; 
y     No  rushing  glory,  like  a  queen  made  bold, 
^ '       The  Dauber  strove  to  draw  her  as  she  rolled.  ...  138 

He  watched  it,  painting  patiently,  as  paints. 
With  eyes  that  pierce  behind  the  blue  sky's  veil, 
The  Benedictine  in  a  Book  of  Saints 
-X-    Watching  the  passing  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 

The  green  dish  dripping  blood,  the  trump,  the  hail, 
The  spears  that  pass,  the  memory  and  the  passion. 
The  beauty  moving  under  this  world's  fashion.  145 

But  as  he  painted,  slowly,  man  by  man, 
The  seamen  gathered  near ;  the  Bosun  stood 
Behind  him,  jeering ;  then  the  Sails  began 
Sniggering  with  comment  that  it  was  not  good. 
N  Chips  flicked  his  sketch  with  little  scraps  of  wood. 
Saying,  "  That  hit  the  top-knot,"  every  time. 
Cook  mocked,  "  My  lovely  drawings ;  it's  a  crime."  ...   152 


DAUBER  535 

"  That's  sense,"  said  all ;  "  you  cannot,  why  pretend  ?  " 

The  Dauber  rose  and  put  his  easel  by. 

"  You've  said  enough,"  he  said,  "  now  let  it  end. 

Who  cares  how  bad  my  painting  may  be  ?     I 

Mean  to  go  on,  and,  if  I  fail,  to  try. 

However  much  I  miss  of  my  intent. 

If  I  have  done  my  best  I'll  be  content.  159 

*'  You  cannot  understand  that.     Let  it  be. 

You  cannot  understand,  nor  know,  nor  share. 

This  is  a  matter  touching  only  me ; 

My  sketch  may  be  a  daub,  for  aught  I  care. 

You  may  be  right.     But  even  if  you  were, 

Your  mocking  should  not  stop  this  work  of  mine ; 

Rot  though  it  be,  its  prompting  is  divine."  ...  166 

And  still  the  Dauber  strove,  though  all  men  mocked, 

To  draw  the  splendor  of  the  passing  thing, 

And  deep  inside  his  heart  a  something  locked, 

Long  pricking  in  him,  now  began  to  sting  — 

A  fear  of  the  disasters  storm  might  bring ; 

His  rank  as  painter  would  be  ended  then  — 

He  would  keep  watch  and  watch  like  other  men.  ...       173 

Once  in  the  passage  he  had  worked  aloft,  ^ 

Shifting  her  suits  one  summer  afternoon,  x/ 

In  the  bright  Trade  wind,  when  the  wind  was  soft,        ^ 

Shaking  the  points,  making  the  tackle  croon. 

But  that  was  child's  play  to  the  future ;  soon 

He  would  be  ordered  up  when  sails  and  spars 

Were  flying  and  going  mad  among  the  stars.  180 

He  had  been  scared  that  first  time,  daunted,  thrilled, 

Not  by  the  height  so  much  as  by  the  size. 

And  then  the  danger  to  the  man  unskilled 

In  standing  on  a  rope  that  runs  through  eyes. 

"  But  in  a  storm,"  he  thought,  "  the  yards  will  rise 

And  roll  together  down,  and  snap  their  gear  !  " 

The  sweat  came  cold  upon  his  palms  for  fear.  ...  187 


536  MASEFIELD 

And  then  he  wondered  if  the  tales  were  lies 

Told  by  old  hands  to  terrify  the  new, 

For,  since  the  ship  left  England,  only  twice 

Had  there  been  need  to  start  a  sheet  or  clew, 

Then  only  royals,  for  an  hour  or  two. 

And  no  seas  broke  aboard,  nor  was  it  cold. 

What  were  these  gales  of  which  the  stories  told  ?  194 

The  thought  went  by.     He  had  heard  the  Bosun  tell 

Too  often,  and  too  fiercely,  not  to  know 

That  being  off  the  Horn  in  June  is  hell : 

Hell  of  continual  toil  in  ice  and  snow, 

Frostbitten  hell  in  which  the  westers  blow        ^ 

Shrieking  for  days  on  end,  in  which  the  seas 

Gulf  the  starved  seamen  till  their  marrows  freeze.  201 

He  resolves  firmly  to  set  his  teeth,  do  his  duty.     Then  a  thought 
occurs  to  him: 

That  this,  and  so  much  like  it,  of  man's  toil, 

Compassed  by  naked  manhood  in  strange  places, 

Was  all  heroic,  but  outside  the  coil 

Within  which  modern  art  gleams  or  grimaces ; 

That  if  he  drew  that  line  of  sailors'  faces 

Sweating  the  sail,  their  passionate  play  and  change, 

It  would  be  new,  and  wonderful,  and  strange.  208 

That  that  was  what  his  work  meant ;  it  would  be 

A  training  in  new  vision  —  a  revealing 

Of  passionate  men  in  battle  with  the  sea. 

High  on  an  unseen  stage,  shaking  and  reeling ; 

And  men  through  him  would  understand  their  feeling, 

Their  might,  their  misery,  their  tragic  power, 

And  all  by  suffering  pain  a  little  hour.  215 

'%J^' *^ Lock  up  your  paints, ^^  the  Mate  said,  ^^  this  is  the  Horn; 
^yT  youHl  join  my  watch  to-night"  The  night  passed,  but  no  morning 
/       broke.     Then  came  the  cry,  ^^  All  hands  on  deck!  " 


L/.  DAUBER  537 

"  Up  !  "  said  the  Mate.     "  Mizen  top-gallants.     Hurry  !  " 

The  Dauber  ran,  the  others  ran,  the  sails 

Slatted  and  shook ;  out  of  the  black  a  flurry 

Whirled  in  fine  lines,  tattering  the  edge  to  trails. 

Painting  and  art  and  England  were  old  tales 

Told  in  some  other  life  to  that  pale  man, 

Who  struggled  with  white  fear  and  gulped  and  ran.  222 

He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell  — 

Rose,  sick  with  pain,  half -lamed  in  his  left  knee ; 

He  reached  the  shrouds  where  clambering  men  pell-mell 

Hustled  each  other  up  and  cursed  him ;  he 

Hurried  aloft  with  them  :  then  from  the  sea        ^ 

Came  a  cold,  sudden  breath  that  made  the  hair 

Stiff  on  the  neck,  as  though  Death  whispered  there.  229 

The  men  kick  him  as  they  clamber  by.  He  reaches  the  mast- 
head; plays  his  part  manfully.  All  sense  of  hands  and  feet  lost 
with  the  icy  cold  he  is  almost  swept  overboard  when  he  descends. 
He  declines  his  lot  of  rum  because  he  is  "  temperance.'^ 

His  bunk  was  sopping  wet ;  he  clambered  in. 

None  of  his  clothes  were  dry ;  his  fear  recurred. 

Cramps  bunched  the  muscles  underneath  his  skin. 

The  great  ship  rolled  until  the  lamp  was  blurred. 

He  took  his  Bible  and  tried  to  read  a  word ; 

Trembled  at  going  aloft  again,  and  then 

Resolved  to  fight  it  out  and  show  it  to  men.  236 

Again  the  shout,  "All  hands  on  deck  !  "  "  This  is  the  end" 
he  mutters,  "  Vll  never  keep  my  hold." 

And  then  the  thought  came :  "  I'm  a  failure.    All 

My  life  has  been  a  failure.     They  were  right. 

It  will  not  matter  if  I  go  and  fall ; 

I  should  be  free  then  from  this  hell's  delight.  ^ 

I'll  never  paint.     Best  let  it  end  to-night. 

I'll  slip  over  the  side.     I've  tried  and  failed." 

So  in  the  ice-cold  in  the  night  he  quailed.  243 


\ 


538  MASEFIELD 

Death  would  be  better,  death,  than  this  long  hell 

Of  mockery  and  surrender  and  dismay  — 

This  long  defeat  of  doing  nothing  well,  ^ 

Playing  the  part  too  high  for  him  to  play. 

"  O  Death  !  who  hides  the  sorry  thing  away, 

Take  me ;  I've  failed.     I  cannot  play  these  cards." 

There  came  a  thundering  from  the  topsail  yards.  250 

And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his  mind,  0  " 

And  staggered  out  to  muster,  beating  back 

The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that  whined. 

Come  what  cards  might  he  meant  to  play  the  pack. 

*'  Ai !  "  screamed  the  wind ;  the  topsail  sheet  went  clack ; 

Ice  filled  the  air  with  spikes ;  the  grey-backs  burst. 

"  Here's  Dauber,"  said  the  Mate,  "  on  deck  the  first.  257 

"  Why,  holy  sailor.  Dauber,  you're  a  man  !  q 

1 1  took  you  for  a  soldier.     Up  now,  come  !  " 
Up  on  the  yards  already  they  began 
That  battle  with  a  gale  which  strikes  men  dumb. 
The  leaping  topsail  thundered  like  a  drum. 
The  frozen  snow  beat  in  the  face  like  shots. 
Tlxe  wind  spun  whipping  wave-crests  into  clots.  ...  264 

A  month  more  of  this.  Cape  Born  is  rounded.  The  Dauber 
has  "  got  manhood.*'  All  treat  him  with  respect.  A  mighty 
wester  blows :  Dauber  is  the  first  man  to  his  sail.  *'  There  came 
a  gust,  the  sail  leaped  from  his  hands  "  — 

So  that  he  saw  it  high  above  him,  grey, 

And  there  his  mate  was  falling ;  quick  he  clutched 

An  arm  in  oilskins  swiftly  snatched  away.  v? 

A  voice  said  "  Christ !  "  a  quick  shape  stooped  and  touched, 

Chain  struck  his  hands,  ropes  shot,  the  sky  was  smutched 

With  vast  black  fires  that  ran,  that  fell,  that  furled. 

And  then  he  saw  the  mast,  the  small  snow  hurled,  271 


/ 


.  The  fore-topgallant  yard  far,  far  aloft, 
And  blankness  settling  on  him  and  great  pain ; 
And  snow  beneath  his  fingers  wet  and  soft, 
_A^  topsail  sheet-blocks  shaking  at  the  chain.  '-> 

Heknew  it  was  he  who  had  fallen ;  then  his  brain 
Swirled  in  a  circle  while  he  watched  the  sky. 
Infinite  multitudes  of  snow  blew  by.  278 

"  I  thought  it  was  Tom  who  fell,"  his  brain's  voice  said. 

"  Down  on  the  bloody  deck  !  "  the  Captain  screamed. 

The  multitudinous  little  snow-flakes  sped. 

His  pain  was  real  enough,  but  all  else  seemed.     ^ 

Si  with  a  bucket  ran,  the  water  gleamed 

Tilting  upon  him  ;  others  came,  the  Mate  ... 

They  knelt  with  eager  eyes  like  things  that  wait  28s 


For  other  things  to  come.     He  saw  them  there. 
"  It  will  go  on,"  he  murmured,  watching  Si. 
Colors  and  sounds  seemed  mixing  in  the  air,  o 

The  pain  was  stunning  him,  and  the  wind  went  by. 
"  More  water,"  said  the  Mate.     "  Here,  Bosun,  try. 
Ask  if  he's  got  a  message.     Hell,  he's  gone  ! 
■*     Here,  Dauber,  paints."     He  said,  "  It  will  go  on."  .  292 

Not  knowing  his  meaning  rightly,  but  he  spoke 
With  the  intenseness  of  a  fading  soul 
f      Whose  share  of  Nature's  fire  turns  to  smoke, 
Whose  hand  on  Nature's  wheel  loses  control. 
The  eager  faces  glowered  red  like  coal. 
They  glowed,  the  great  storm  glowed,  the  sails,  the  mast. 
3  "  It  will  go  on,"  he  cried  aloud,  and  passed.  ...  299 

"  Well,"  said  the  Mate,  "  we  cannot  leave  him  here. 
:      Run,  Si,  and  get  the  half-deck  table  clear.  ^ 

We'll  lay  him  there.     Catch  hold  there,  you,  and  you, 
He's  dead,  poor  son ;  there's  nothing  more  to  do."  303 


540  MASEFTELD 

Night  fell,  and  all  night  long  the  Dauber  lay 

Covered  upon  the  table ;  all  night  long 

The  pitiless  storm  exulted  at  her  prey, 

Huddling  the  waters  with  her  icy  thong. 

But  to  the  covered  shape  she  did  no  wrong. 

He  lay  beneath  the  sailcloth.     Bell  by  bell 

The  night  wore  through ;  the  stars  rose,  the  stars  fell.  ...     31c 


He  was  oflF  duty.     So  it  blew  all  night, 

And  when  the  watches  changed  the  men  would  come 

Dripping  within  the  door  to  strike  a  light 

And  stare  upon  the  Dauber  lying  dumb. 

And  say,  "  He  come  a  cruel  thump,  poor  chum." 

Or^  "  He'd  a-been  a  fine  big  man ;  "  or  "  He  .  .  . 

A  smart  young  seaman  he  was  getting  to  be."  317 


CARGOES 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny -Palestine, 
With  a  cargo  of  ivory,  ^- 

And  apes  and  peacocks. 
Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  whitewine. 


Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores.  loi 


^:^ 


Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smokestack, 

Batting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal. 

Road-rails,  pig-lead. 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 


GEORGIAN  POETRY  541 

ALFRED  NOYES   (1880-        ) 

Alfred  Noyes  was  born  in  Staffordshire,  September  16,  1880. 
At  Oxford  he  read,  wrote  verse,  and  rowed  in  the  college  crew.  His 
wife  is  an  American,  and  since  19 14  he  has  been  Professor  of  Modern 
EngUsh  Literatm-e  at  Princeton  University.  He  is  a  voluminous 
writer  in  both  prose  and  verse.  A  collected  edition  of  his  poems, 
complete  up  to  1913,  has  been  pubUshed  in  two  volumes  (Frederick 
A.  Stokes  Co.,  N.  Y.,  19 13,  etc.).  Since  then  have  been  published  by 
the  same  firm  The  Lord  of  Misrule  and  Other  Poems  (191 5)  and  The 
New  Morning  ( 1 9 1 9) . 

Mr.  Noyes  belongs  to  that  company  of  modern  poets  which  is  more 
interested  in  singing  the  eternal  passions  and  verities  of  life  than  in 
preaching  rebellion  or  lamenting  the  decay  of  virtue.  But  his  songs 
are  not  exquisite  brevities  in  a  sequestered  garden,  like  Mr.  De  la 
Mare's,  or  occasional  utterances  of  a  charming  spirit,  like  Stevenson's, 
or  trumpets  of  the  higher  imperialism,  like  Mr.  Kipling's,  or  discrim- 
inating and  epigranmiatic  appreciations,  like  Sir  WiUiam  Watson's. 
His,  rather,  is  a  whole-hearted,  optimistic,  song  of  the  patent  life 
of  the  present  and  of  the  heroic  and  romantic  adventures  of  the  past. 
He  hears  an  organ-grinder  in  the  streets  of  London :  his  heart  beats 
faster  for  the  hearing,  as  have  millions  of  hearts,  —  and  we  have  a 
masterpiece.  The  Barr el-Organ.  "Out  of  the  mechanical  grinding 
of  the  hand  organ,  with  the  accompaniment  of  city  omnibuses,  we 
get  the  very  breath  of  spring  in  almost  intolerable  sweetness.  This 
poem  affects  the  head,  the  heart,  and  the  feet.  I  defy  any  man  or 
woman  to  read  it  without  surrendering  to  the  magic  of  the  lilacs, 
the  magic  of  old  memories,  the  magic  of  the  poet."  Or  he  reads  the 
tale  on  a  grave-stone  and  gives  us  the  pathetic  romance  of  The  Fisher- 
Girl.  He  sees  pictures  or  butterflies,  or  a  tramp,  or  junks  of  Old 
Hong  Kong,  or  a  wooden-legged  fiddler,  or  a  railway  platform,  or  a 
swimming  race,  or  an  electric  tram,  or  mist  in  the  valley ;  or  —  best  of 
all  —  he  is  a  child  and  reads  fairy  tales  of  Old  Japan  and  dreams 
a  <  wonder-worker  who  brings  all  to  life  and  spirits  him  away  with 
other  listening  children  to  the  world  where  fairyland  is  true :  presto ! 
a  poem  about  each  subject  in  turn.  Or,  he  reads  of  Drake  or  Nelson 
adventuring  on  the  high  seas,  or  of  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian, 
or  of  Shakespeare,  Ben  Jonson  and  their  fellow  poets  drinking  at  the 
Mermaid :  more  poems,  and  long  ones,  romantic,  vigorous,  above  all 
interesting  —  the  lyrical  and  epical  narrative  of  Drake,  the  drama  of 
Sherwood,  Tales  of  the  Mermaid  Tavern  —  or  shorter  ones  in  ballad 
form,  like  Forty  Singing  Seamen  and  those  printed  below. 


542  THE   TWENTIETH   CENTURY 

But  the  charm  of  his  ballads  must  not  blind  one  to  the  dignity  and 
merit  of  his  poems  of  loftier  theme,  —  Creation,  The  Old  Sceptic,  The 
Paradox,  and  many  more.  He  is  both  varied  and  wholesome.  He 
is  not  a  mere  realist,  portraying  the  everyday  unconventional  to  shock 
us  into  thought ;  nor  is  he  a  classicist,  mindful  of  traditional  decorums. 
He  is  a  forthright  idealist,  dealing  helpfully  with  whatever  subject 
seems  to  him  worth  while,  getting  at  the  heart  of  it  and  transfiguring 
for  us  its  sometimes  unromantic  or  dull  historical  appearance.  Of 
all  subjects  none  seems  to  him  better  worth  while. than  the  future 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  He  is  a  devoted  son  of  Great  Britain, 
an  ardent  lover  of  America.  Nearest  his  heart  he  cherishes  the  belief 
that  on  their  friendship  hangs  the  happiness  of  the  world.  Hence 
many  of  his  noblest  poems :  of  England  —  Nelson'' s  Year,  In  Time 
of  War,  A  Song  of  England;  of  England  and  America  —  that  affec- 
tionate toast  to  America,  the  Prologue  to  Drake,  The  Prayer  for  Peace, 
Princeton  (igiy),  and  in  his  latest  volume  (1919),  Republic  and 
Motherland  and  the  Union.  The  open-road  swing  of  his  metres, 
his  unspoiled  enthusiasm,  his  sincerity  of  conviction,  his  readiness  to 
admire  the  heroism  of  high-hearted  action  and  of  patient  suffering 
alike,  the  tang  of  the  sea  and  the  winds  and  the  woods,  —  these 
make  of  his  poems  salutary  and  heartening  influences.  The  subtler 
measures,  rarer  perfumes,  stranger  images  he  has  also  at  his  command, 
as  in  the  most  magical  of  his  poems,  The  Flower  of  Old  Japan. 

THE  BARREL-ORGAN  1 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;    but  the  world  has  made  it 
sweet 

And  fulfilled  it  with  the  sunset  glow ; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the  pain    5 

That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal  light ; 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 

In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  now  it's  marching  onward    through   the  realms    of  old 
romance, 
And  trolling  out  a  fond  familiar  tune,  10 

1  The  following  poems  by  Alfred  Noyes  are  included  by  permission  of  the  author 
and  of  the  publisher,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co. 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  543 

And  now  it's  roaring  cannon  down  to  fight  the  King  of  France, 

And  now  it's  prattling  softly  to  the  moon, 
And  all  around  the  organ  there's  a  sea  without  a  shore 

Of  human  joys  and  wonders  and  regrets, 
To  remember  and  to  recompense  the  music  evermore  is 

For  what  the  cold  machinery  forgets.  .  .  . 

Yes ;  as  the  music  changes, 

Like  a  prismatic  glass, 
It  takes  the  light  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  moods  tHat  pass ;  20 

Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets, 
And  gives  the  world  a  glimpse  of  all 

The  colors  it  forgets. 

And  there  La  Traviata  sighs  25 

Another  sadder  song ; 
And  there  //  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong ; 
And  bolder  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance,  30 

Than  ever  here  on  earth  below 

Have  whirled  into  —  a  dance  !  — 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time ; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac- time  (it  isn't  far  from  London  !) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 
wonderland ;  zs 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac- time  (it  isn't  far  from  London  !) 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  perfume  and  sweet 
perfume, 
The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  (and  oh,  so  near  to  Lon- 
don!) 
And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high  and  all  the  world's  a 
blaze  of  sky 
The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a  song  for  Lon- 
I         don.  40 


544  NOYES 

The  Dorian  nightingale  is  rare  and  yet  they  say  you'll  hear 
him  there 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac- time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London  !) 
The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after  dark  the  lon^  halloo 

And  golden-eyed  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  of  owls  that  ogle  London. 

For  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind  that  isn't  heard      45 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London  !) 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all  the  chestnut  spires 
are  out 
You'll  hear  the  rest  without  a   doubt,   all   chorusing  for 
London : — 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time  ; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  {it  isnH  far  from  London  1)  50 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's  won- 
derland; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  {it  isnH  far  from  London!) 

And  then  the  troubadour  begins  to  thrill  the  golden  street, 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
And  in  all  the  gaudy  busses  there  are  scores  of  weary  feet        55 
Marking  time,  sweet  time,  with  a  dull  mechanic  beat, 
And  a  thousand  hearts  are  plunging  to  a  love  they'll  never  meet, 
Through  the  meadows  of  the  sunset,  through  the  poppies  and 
the  wheat, 

In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

Verdi,  Verdi,  wh6n  you  wrote  //  Trovatore  did  you  dream         60 

Of  the  City  when  the  sun  sinks  low. 
Of  the  organ  and  the  monkey  and  the  many-colored  stream 
On  the  Piccadilly  pavement,  of  the  myriad  eyes  that  seem 
To  be  litten  for  a  moment  with  a  wild  Italian  gleam 
As  A  che  la  morte  parodies  the  world's  eternal  theme  65 

And  pulses  with  the  sunset-glow. 

There's  a  thief,  perhaps,  that  listens  with  a  face  of  frozen  stone 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  545 

There's  a  portly  man  of  business  with  a  balance  of  his  own, 
There's  a  clerk  and  there's  a  butcher  of  a  soft  reposeful  tone.  70 
And  they're  all  of  them  returning  to  the  heavens  they  have 

known : 
They  are  crammed  and  jammed  in  busses  and  —  they're  each 

of  them  alone 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  very  modish  woman  and  her  smile  is  very  bland 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ;  7S 

And  her  hansom  jingles  onward,  but  her  little  jew.elled  hand 
Is  clenched  a  little  tighter  and  she  cannot  understand 
What  she  wants  or  why  she  wanders  to  that  undiscovered  land, 
For  the  parties  there  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  thing  she  planned, 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go.  80 

There's  a  rowing  man  that  listens  and  his  heart  is  crying  out 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
For  the  barge,  the  eight,  the  Isis,  and  the  coach's  whoop  and 

shout. 
For  the  minute-gun,  the  counting,  and  the  long  dishevelled  rout. 
For  the  howl  along  the  tow-path  and  a  fate  that's  still   in 
doubt,  8s 

For  a  roughened  oar  to  handle  and  a  race  to  think  about 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  laborer  that  listens  to  the  voices  of  the  dead 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
And  his  hand  begins  to  tremble  and  his  face  to  smolder  red     90 
As  he  sees  a  loafer  watching  him  and  —  there  he  turns  his  head 
And  stares  into  the  sunset  where  his  April  love  is  tied. 
For  he  hears  her  softly  singing  and  his  lonely  soul  is  led 

Through  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  an  old  and  haggard  demi-rep,  it's  ringing  in  her  ears,  95 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
With  the  wild  and  empty  sorrow  of  the  love  that  blights  and 
sears, 

2N 


546  NOYES 

Oh,  and  if  she  hurries  onward,  then  be  sure,  be  sure  she  hears. 
Hears  and  bears  the  bitter  burden  of  the  unforgotten  years. 
And  her  laugh's  a  Httle  harsher  and  her  eyes  are  brimmed  with 
tears  loo 

For  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
Though  the  music's  only  Verdi  there's  a  world  to  make  it  sweet, 
Just  as  yonder  yellow  sunset  where  the  earth  and  heaven  meet  105 
Mellows  all  the  sooty  City  !     Hark,  a  hundred  thousand  feet 
Are  marching  on  to  glory  through  the  poppies  and  the  wheat 

In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

So  it's  Jeremiah,  Jeremiah, 

What  have  you  to  say  no 

When  you  meet  the  garland  girls 

Tripping  on  their  way  ? 

All  around  my  gala  hat 

I  wear  a  wreath  of  roses 
(A  long  and  lonely  year  it  is  ns 

I've  waited  for  the  May  I) 
If  any  one  should  ask  you, 

The  reason  why  I  wear  it  is  — 
My  own  love,  my  true  love 

Is  coming  home  to-day.  120 

And  it's  buy  a  bu'nch  of  violets  for  the  lady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London/) 

Buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 
While  the  sky  burns  blue  above : 

On  the  other  side  the  street  you'll  find  it  shady  125 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 

But  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady. 
And  tell  her  she's  your  own  true  love. 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  547 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  glittering  and  slow ;  130 

And  the  music's  not  immortal ;  but  the  world  has  made  it  sweet 

And  enriched  it  with  the  harmonies  that  make  a  song  complete 

In  the  deeper  heavens  of  music  where  the  night  and  morning 

meet, 

As  it  dies  into  the  sunset-glow ; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the  pain  135 

That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal  light, 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 

In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 


And  there,  as  the  music  changes, 

The  song  runs  round  again.  140 

Once  more  it  turns  and  ranges 

Through  all  its  joy  and  pain. 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets ; 
And  the  wheeling  world  remembers  all  14s 

The  wheeling  song  forgets. 


Once  more  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song : 
Once  more  //  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong ;  is© 

Once  more  the  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance 
Till  once,  once  more,  the  shattered  foe 

Has  whirled  into  * —  a  dance! 


Come  down  to  Keiv  in  lilac4ime,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time;    15s 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London  !) 

And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer^ s  won- 
derland; 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  {it  isnH  far  from  London  1) 


548  NOYES 

THE  ADMIRAL'S   GHOST 

I  tell  you  a  tale  to-night 

Which  a  seaman  told  to  me, 
With  eyes  that  gleamed  in  the  lanthorn  light 

And  a  voice  as  low  as  the  sea.  4 

You  could  almost  hear  the  stars 

TwinkHng  up  in  the  sky, 
And  the  old  wind  woke  and  moaned  in  the  spars, 

And  the  same  old  waves  went  by,  8 

Singing  the  same  old  song 

As  ages  and  ages  ago. 
While  he  froze  my  blood  in  that  deep-sea  night 

With  the  things  that  he  seemed  to  know.  12 

A  bare  foot  pattered  on  deck ; 

Ropes  creaked ;  then  —  all  grew  stiU, 
And  he  pointed  his  finger  straight  in  my  face 

And  growled,  as  a  sea-dog  will.  16 

"  Do'ee  know  who  Nelson  was  ? 

That  pore  little  shrivelled  form 
With  a  patch  on  his  eye  and  the  pinned-up  sleeve 

And  a  soul  like  a  North  Sea  storm  ?  20 

"  Ask  of  the  Devonshire  men  ! 

They  know,  and  they'll  tell  you  true ; 
He  wasn't  the  pore  little  chawed-up  chap 

That  Hardy  thought  he  knew.  24 

"  He  wasn't  the  man  you  think  ! 

His  patch  was  a  dern  disguise  ! 
For  he  knew  that  they'd  find  him  out,  d'you  see, 

If  they  looked  him  in  both  his  eyes.  28 

"  He  was  twice  as  big  as  he  seemed ; 

But  his  clothes  were  cunningly  made. 


THE  ADMIRAL'S  GHOST  549 

He'd  both  of  his  hairy  arms  all  right ! 

The  sleeve  was  a  trick  of  the  trade.  32 

"  You've  heard  of  sperrits,  no  doubt ; 

Well,  there's  more  in  the  matter  than  that ! 
But  he  wasn't  the  patch  and  he  wasn't  the  sleeve, 

And  he  wasn't  the  laced  cocked-hat.  36 

"  Nelson  was  just  —  a  Ghost  I 

You  may  laugh  !     But  the  Devonshire  men 
They  knew  that  he'd  come  when  England  called, 

And  they  know  that  he'll  come  again.  40 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  way  it  was 

(For  none  of  the  landsmen  know), 
And  to  tell  it  you  right,  you  must  go  a-stam 

Two  hundred  years  or  so.  '        44 


**  The  waves  were  lapping  and  slapping 

The  same  as  they  are  to-day ; 
And  Drake  lay  dying  aboard  his  ship 

In  Nombre  Dios  Bay.  48 

"  The  scent  of  the  foreign  flowers 

Came  floating  all  around ; 
*  But  I'd  give  my  soul  for  the  smell  o'  the  pitch,' 

Says  he,  *  in  Plymouth  Sound.  52 

"  '  What  shall  I  do,'  he  says, 

'  When  the  guns  begin  to  roar. 
And  England  wants  me,  and  me  not  there 

To  shatter  'er  foes  once  more  ?  '  56 

"  (You've  heard  what  he  said,  maybe. 

But  I'll  mark  you  the  p'ints  again ; 
For  I  want  you  to  box  your  compass  right 

And  get  my  story  plain.)  60 


55©      -  NOYES 

"  '  You  must  take  my  drum/  he  says, 

*  To  the  old  sea-wall  at  home ; 
And  if  ever  you  strike  that  drum,'  he  says, 

'  Why,  strike  me  blind,  I'll  come  !  64 

"  'If  England  needs  me,  dead 

Or  living,  I'll  rise  that  day  ! 
I'll  rise  from  the  darkness  under  the  sea 

Ten  thousand  miles  away.'  68    } 

"  That's  what  he  said ;  and  he  died ; 

An'  his  pirates,  listenin'  roun'. 
With  their  crimson  doublets  and  jewelled  swords 

That  flashed  as  the  sun  went  down,  72 

*'  They  sewed  him  up  in  his  shroud 

With  a  round-shot  top  and  toe. 
To  sink  him  under  the  salt  sharp  sea 

Where  all  good  seamen  go.  76 

"  They  lowered  him  down  in  the  deep. 

And  there  in  the  sunset  light 
They  boomed  a  broadside  over  his  grave, 

As  meanin'  to  say  '  Good-night.'  80 

"  They  sailed  away  in  the  dark 

To  the  dear  little  isle  they  knew ; 
And  they  hung  his  drum  by  the  old  sea-wall 

The  same  as  he  told  them  to.  84 


"  Two  hundred  years  went  by. 

And  the  guns  began  to  roar. 
And  England  was  fighting  hard  for  her  life, 

As  ever  she  fought  of  yore.  88 

"  *  It's  only  my  dead  that  count,' 

She  said,  as  she  says  to-day ;  ^ 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  551 

*  It  isn't  the  ships  and  it  isn't  the  guns 

'UU  sweep  Trafalgar's  Bay.'  ga 

"  D'you  guess  who  Nelson  was  ? 

You  may  laugh,  but  it's  true  as  true  ! 
There  was  more  in  that  pore  little  chawed-up  chap 

Than  ever  his  best  friend  knew.  96 

"  The  foe  was  creepin'  close, 

In  the  dark,  to  our  white  cliff ed  isle ; 
They  were  ready  to  leap  at  England's  throat, 

When  —  O,  you  may  smile,  you  may  smile ;  100 

"  But  —  ask  of  the  Devonshire  men ; 

For  they  heard  in  the  dead  of  night 
The  roll  of  a  drum,  and  they  saw  him  pass 

On  a  ship  all  shining  white.  104 

*'  He  stretched  out  his  dead  cold  face 

And  he  sailed  in  the  grand  old  way  ! 
The  fishes  had  taken  an  eye  and  his  arm, 

But  he  swept  Trafalgar's  Bay.  •    leS 

"  Nelson  —  was  Francis  Drake  I 

O,  what  matters  the  uniform, 
Or  the  patch  on  your  eye  or  your  pinned-up  sleeve, 

If  your  soul's  like  a  North  Sea  storm  ?  "  na 

THE   HIGHWAYMAN 

PART  ONE 

The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the  gusty  trees. 
The  moon  was  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 
The  road  was  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor. 
And  the  highwayman  came  riding  — 

Riding  —  riding  — 
The  highwayman  came  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door.  6 


552  NOYES 

He'd  a  French  cocked-hat  on  his  forehead,  a  bunch  of  lace  at 

his  chin, 
A  coat  of  the  claret  velvet,  and  breeches  of  brown  doeskin ; 
They  fitted  with  never  a  wrinkle:    his  boots  were  up  to  the 

thigh ! 
And  he  rode  with  a  jewelled  twinkle, 

His  pistol  butts  a-twinkle. 
His  rapier  hilt  a-twinkle,  under  the  jewelled  sky.  12 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clattered  and  clashed  in  the  dark  inn-yard, 
And  he  tapped  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  was  locked 

and  barred ; 
He  whistled  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting 

there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter. 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair.         *     18 

And  dark  in  the  dark  old  inn-yard  a  stable  wicket  creaked 
Where  Tim  the  ostler  listened ;  his  face  was  white  and  peaked ; 
His  eyes  were  hollows  of  madness,  his  hair  like  mouldy  hay, 
But  he  loved  the  landlord's  daughter. 

The  landlord's  red-lipped  daughter. 
Dumb  as  a  dog  he  listened,  and  he  heard  the  robber  say  —     24 

"  One  kiss,  my  bonny  sweetheart,  I'm  after  a  prize  to-night, 
But  I  shall  be  back  with  the  yellow  gold  before  the  morning 

light; 
Yet,  if  they  press  me  sharply,  and  harry  me  through  the  day. 
Then  look  for  me  by  moonlight. 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight, 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the 

way."  30 

He  rose  upright  in  the  stirrups ;  he  scarce  could  reach  her  hand, 
But  she  loosened  her  hair  i'  the  casement !     His  face  burnt  like 

a  brand 
As  the  black  cascade  of  perfume  came  tumbling  over  his  breast ; 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  553 

And  he  kissed  its  waves  in  the  moonUght, 

(Oh,  sweet  black  waves  in  the  moonUght !) 
Then  he  tugged  at  his  rein  in  the  moonlight,  and  galloped  away 
to  the  West.  36 

PART  TWO 

He  did  not  come  in  the  dawning ;  he  did  not  come  at  noon ; 
And  out  o'  the  tawny  sunset,  before  the  rise  o'  the  moon, 
When  the  road  was  a  gipsy's  ribbon,  looping  the  purple  moor, 
A  red-coat  troop  came  marching  — 
Marching  —  marching  — 
King  George's  men  came  marching,  up  to  the  old  inn-door.      42 

They  said  no  word  to  the  landlord,  they  drank  his  ale  instead, 
But  they  gagged  his  daughter  and  bound  her  to  the  foot  of  her 

narrow  bed ; 
Two  of  them  knelt  at  her  casement,  with  muskets  at  their  side  ! 
There  was  death  at  every  window ; 

And  hell  at  one  dark  window ; 
For  Bess  could  see,  through  her  casement,  the  road  that  he 

would  ride.  48 

They  had  tied  her  up  to  attention,  with  many  a  sniggering 

jest ; 
They  had  bound  a  musket  beside  her,  with  the  barrel  beneath 

her  breast ! 
"  Now  keep  good  watch  !  "  and  they  kissed  her. 

She  heard  the  dead  man  say  — 
Look  for  me  by  moonlight; 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight; 
ril  come  to  thee  by  moonlight^  though  hell  should  bar  the  way  I     54 

She  twisted  her  hands  behind  her ;  but  all  the  knots  held  good  ! 
She  writhed  her  hands  till  her  fingers  were  wet  with  sweat  or 

blood  ! 
They  stretched  and  strained  in  tl^  darkness,  and  the  hours 

crawled  by  like  years, 


554  NOYES 

Till,  now,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight. 

Cold,  on  the- stroke  of  midnight, 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it !    The  trigger  at  least  was 
hers !  60 

The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it;    she  strove  no  more  for  the 

rest ! 
Up,  she  stood  up  to  attention,  with  the  barrel  beneath  her 

breast. 
She  would  not  risk  their  hearing ;   she  would  not  strive  again ; 
For  the  road  lay  bare  in  the  moonlight ; 

Blank  and  bare  in  the  moonlight ; 
And  the  blood  of  her  veins  in  the  moonlight  throbbed  to  her 

love's  refrain.  66 

Tlot-tlot;     tlot-tlot!    Had    they    heard    it?    The    horse-hoofs 

ringing  clear ; 
Tlot4lot,  tlot-tlot,  in  the  distance?    Were  they  deaf  that  they 

did  not  hear  ? 
Down  the  ribbon  of  moonlight,  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
The  highwayman  came  riding, 

Riding,  riding  1 
The  red-coats  looked  to  their  priming  !     She  stood  up,  straight 

and  still !  73 

Tlot-tlot,  in  the  frosty  silence  !     Tlot-tlot,  in  the  echoing  night ! 

Nearer  he  came  and  nearer  !    Her  face  was  like  a  light  1 

Her  eyes  grew  wide  for  a  moment;    she  drew  one  last  deep 

breath. 
Then  her  finger  moved  in  the  moonlight,  . 

Her  musket  shattered  the  moonlight. 
Shattered  her  breast  in   the  moonlight  and  warned  him  — 

with  her  death.  78 

He  turned;    he  spurred  to  the  West;    he  did  not  know  who 

stood 
Bowed,  with  her  head  o'er  the  musket,  drenched  with  her  own 

red  blood ! 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  555 

Not  till  the  dawn  he  heard  it,  his  face  grew  grey  to  hear 
How  Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Had  watched  for  her  love  in  the  moonlight,  and  died  in  the 
darkness  there.  84 

Back,  he  spurred   like  a  madman,  shrieking  a  curse  to  the 
sky, 

With  the  white  road  smoking  behind  him  and  his  rapier  bran- 
dished high  ! 

Blood-red  were  his  spurs  i'  the  golden  noon ;   wine-red  his  vel- 
vet coat, 

When  they  shot  him  down  on  the  highway, 
Down  like  a  dog  on  the  highway. 

And  he  lay  in  his  blood  on  the  highway,  with  the  bunch  of  laee 
at  his  throat.  9© 


And  still  of  a  winter* s  night,  they  say,  when  the  wind  is  in  the 

trees. 
When  the  moon  is  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 
When  the  road  is  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
A  highwayman  comes  riding  — 

Riding  —  riding  — 
A  highwayman  comes  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door,  90 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clatters  and  clangs  in  the  dark  inn-yard; 

He  taps  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  is  locked  and  barred; 

He  whistles  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting 

there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair,  102 


556  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 


JAMES    STEPHENS    (1882-         ) 

James  Stephens,  Irish  novelist  and  poet,  has  published  works 
of  fiction,  The  Crock  of  Gold  (191 2)  and  The  Demi-Gods  (1914),  and 
several  volumes  of  verse,  including  Insurrections  (1909),  The  Hill  of 
Vision  (191 2),  Songs  from  the  Clay  (19 14),  The  Adventures  of  Seumas 
Beg,  printed  with  The  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin  (191 5),  Green  Branches 
(1916),  and  Reincarnations  (19 18). 

By  his  occasional  use  of  irregular  rhythms,  by  his  novelty  of  sub- 
ject, his  unstereotyped  diction,  and  his  sensational  simplicity — ;or 
at  least  directness  —  Mr.  Stephens  stands  in  some  sort  of  aUiance 
with  the  'New  Poetry'  of  the  Georgian  era.  By  the  source,  setting, 
and  association  of  much  of  his  work,  and  by  his  own  affiliations,  he 
is  an  important  part  of  the  new  Irish  movement.  His  poetry  presents 
two  main  aspects,  the  purposive  and  the  amusing.  By  his  verses 
of  serious  intent  —  by  the  beauty  of  their  rhythms,  the  dignity  of  their 
diction,  their  splendid  faith  in  self-conquest  and  in  the  progressive 
humanizing  of  the  race  —  he  lays  claim  to  a  high  place  among  poets. 
He  stimulates  a  deep  delight  as  he  calls  us  to  gird  up  our  loins  for  the 
worth-while  struggle  to  civilize  ourselves  by  realizing  our  dreams. 
This  serious  aspect  of  his  art  appears  in  the  later  portions  of  The  Lonely 
God,  from  which  our  first  selection  is  taken,  in  The  Waste  Places,  in 
A  Prelude  and  a  Song,  and  other  poems.  Here  there  is  fire,  teaching, 
prophecy,  and  the  call  of  bugles,  —  all  very  noble  and  strong,  almost 
shaming  the  spirit  of  mere  revolt  and  lamentation. 

Of  the  amusing*  aspect  of  his  poetry  we  have  the  best  possible 
examples  in  our  other  selections.  Seumas  (pronounced  Sha-mus) 
Beg,  Httle  James,  tells  his  adventures.  With  a  child's  stark  direct- 
ness and  familiar  treatment  of  Devil,  Angel,  and  God,  the  author 
combines  a  whimsical  originaHty  that  leaves  the  reader  breathless 
for  more.  The  laconic  perfection  of  phrase  and  the  veracity  with 
which  the  boy's  states  of  mind  are  revealed  make  these  verses  a 
treasure  forever.  Mr.  Stephens  is  able,  moreover,  to  extend  most  of 
these  qualities  to  subjects  in  which  children  are  not  concerned. 
When,  as  in  Thomas  an  Buile's  naive  story  of  his  vision  of  God, 
told  in  a  *Pub,'  this  laconic  simplicity  suddenly  bursts  into  a 
thought  of  heavenly  splendor,  the  effect  is  truly  interpretative.  In 
some  of  the  short  poems  there  is  a  primitive,  almost  pagan,  mood  of 
oneness  with  nature ;  in  others,  the  reckless  humor  of  sheer  absurdity, 
01  the  pathos  of  hope  human  and  unfulfilled,  or  a  smiling  irony. 


THE   LONELY   GOD  557 

THE  LONELY  GOD 

{A  Selection) 

So  Eden  was  deserted,  and  at  eve 

Into  the  quiet  place  God  came  to  grieve. 

His  face  was  sad,  His  hands  hung  slackly  down 

Along  His  robe ;  too  sorrowful  to  frown 

He  paced  along  the  grassy  paths  and  through  5 

The  silent  trees,  and  where  the  flowers  grew 

Tended  by  Adam.     All  the  birds  had  gone  ' 

Out  to  the  world,  and  singing  was  not  one 

To  cheer  the  lonely  God  out  of  His  grief  — 

The  silence  broken  only  when  a  leaf  10 

Tap't  lightly  on  a  leaf,  or  when  the  wind, 

Slow-handed,  swayed  the  bushes  to  its  mind. 

And  so  along  the  base  of  a  round  hill, 

Rolling  in  fern.  He  bent  His  way  until 

He  neared  the  little  hut  which  Adam  made,  15 

And  saw  its  dusky  rooftree  overlaid 

With  greenest  leaves.     Here  Adam  and  his  spouse 

Were  wont  to  nestle  in  their  little  house 

Snug  at  the  dew-time :  here  He,  standing  sad, 

Sighed  with  the  wind,  nor  any  pleasure  had  20 

In  heavenly  knowledge,  for  His  darlings  twain 

Had  gone  from  Him  to  learn  the  feel  of  pain. 

And  what  was  meant  by  sorrow  and  despair,  — 

Drear  knowledge  for  a  Father  to  prepare. 

There  He  looked  sadly  on  the  little  place;  25 

A  beehive  round  it  was,  without  a  trace 

Of  occupant  or  owner ;  standing  dim 

Among  the  gloomy  trees  it  seemed  to  Him 

A  final  desolation,  the  last  word 

Wherewith  the  lips  of  silence  had  been  stirred.  30 

Chaste  and  remote,  so  tiny  and  so  shy, 

J  From  The  Hill  of  Vision  by  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Co. 


5S8  STEPHENS 

So  new  withal,  so  lost  to  any  eye, 

So  pac't  of  memories  all  innocent 

Of  days  and  nights  that  in  it  had  been  spent 

In  blithe  communion,  Adam,  Eve,  and  He,  (    35 

Afar  from  Heaven  and  its  gaudery ; 

And  now  no  more  !     He  still  must  be  the  God 

But  not  the  friend ;   a  Father  with  a  rod 

Whose  voice  was  fear,  whose  countenance  a  threat, 

Whose  coming  terror,  and  whose  going  wet  40 

With  penitential  tears ;  not  evermore 

Would  they  run  forth  to  meet  Him  as  before 

With  careless  laughter,  striving  each  to  be 

First  to  His  hand  and  dancing  in  their  glee 

To  see  Him  coming  —  they  would  hide  instead  45 

At  His  approach,  or  stand  and  hang  the  head. 

Speaking  in  whispers,  and  would  learn  to  pray 

Instead  of  asking,  "  Father,  if  we  may." 

Never  again  to  Eden  would  He  haste 

At  cool  of  evening,  when  the  sun  had  paced  50 

Back  from  the  tree-tops,  slanting  from  the  rim 

Of  a  low  cloud,  what  time  the  twilight  dim 

Knit  tree  to  tree  in  shadow,  gathering  slow 

Till  all  had  met  and  vanished  in  the  flow 

Of  dusky  silence,  and  a  brooding  star  55 

Stared  at  the  growing  darkness  from  afar. 

While  haply  now  and  then  some  nested  bird 

Would  lift  upon  the  air  a  sleepy  word 

Most  musical,  or  swing  its  airy  bed 

To  the  high  moon  that  drifted  overhead.   "  60 

'Twas  good  to  quit  at  evening  His  great  throne, 

To  lay  His  crown  aside,  and  all  alone 

Down  through  the  quiet  air  to  stoop  and  glide 

Unkenned  by  angels :  silently  to  hide 

In  the  green  fields,  by  dappled  shades,  where  brooks       65 

Through  leafy  solitudes  and  quiet  nooks 

Flowed  far  from  heavenly  majesty  and  pride,  0 


ADVENTURES  OF  SEUMAS  BEG  559 

From  light  astounding  and  the  wheeHng  tide 
Of  roaring  stars.     Thus  does  it  ever  seem 
Good  to  the  best  to  stay  aside  and  dream  70 

In  narrow  places,  where  the  hand  can  feel 
Something  beside,  and  know  that  it  is  real. 
His  angels  !  silly  creatures  who  could  sing 
And  sing  again,  and  delicately  fling 

The  smoky  censer,  bow  and  stand  aside  75 

All  mute  in  adoration  :  thronging  wide. 
Till  nowhere  could  He  look  but  soon  He  saw 
An  angel  bending  humbly  to  the  law 
Mechanic ;  knowing  nothing  more  of  pain, 
Than  when  they  were  forbid  to  sing  again,  80 

Or  swing  anew  the  censer,  or  bow  down 
In  humble  adoration  of  His  frown. 
This  was  the  thought  in  Eden  as  He  trod  — 
..  .  .  It  is  a  lonely  thing  to  be  a  God. 

POEMS  FROM  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SEUMAS  BEG  ^ 

THE  HORSE 

A  sparrow  hopped  about  the  street,  , 

And  he  was  not  a  bit  afraid ; 
He  flew  between  a  horse's  feet. 

And  ate  his  supper  undismayed : 
I  think  myself  the  horse  knew  well        ' 
The  bird  came  for  the  grains  that  fell.  6 

For  his  eye  was  looking  down, 

And  he  danced  the  corn  about 
In  his  nose-bag,  till  the  brown 

Grains  of  corn  were  tumbled  out ; 
And  I  fancy  that  he  said, 
"  Eat  it  up,  young  Speckle-Head  !  "  12 

The  driver  then  came  back  again, 
He  climbed  into  the  heavy  dray ; 

'  From  The  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin,  by  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Co. 


560  STEPHENS 

And  he  tightened  up  the  rein, 

Cracked  his  whip  and  drove  away. 
But  when  the  horse's  ribs  were  hi^, 
The  sparrow  did  not  care  a  bit.  18 

THE   devil's   bag 

I  saw  the  Devil  walking  down  .the  lane 

Behind  our  house.  —  There  was  a  heavy  bag 
Strapped  tightly  on  his  shoulders,  and  the  rain 

Sizzled  when  it  hit  him.     He  picked  a  rag 
Up  from  the  ground  and  put  it  in  his  sack,  5 

And  grinned  and  rubbed  his  hands.     There  was  a  thing 
Moving  inside  the  bag  upon  his  back  — 

It  must  have  been  a  soul !     I  saw  it  fling 
And  twist  about  inside,  and  not  a  hole 

Or  cranny  for  escape  !     Oh,  it  was  sad  !  10 

I  cried,  and  shouted  out,  *'  Let  out  that  soul!  " 

But  he  turned  round,  and,  sure,  his  face  went  mad, 
And  twisted  up  and  down,  and  he  said  "  Hell !  " 
And  ran  away  ...  Oh,  mammy  !    I'm  not  well. 

A   VISIT   FROM   ABROAD 

A  speck  went  blowing  up  against  the  sky 

As  Jittle  as  a  leaf :  then  it  drew  near 
And  broadened.  —  "  It's  a  bird,"  said  I, 

And  fetched  my  bow  and  arrows.     It  was  queer  ! 
It  grew  up  from  a  speck  into  a  blot,  5 

And  squattered  past  a  cloud ;   then  it  flew  down 
All  crumply,  and  waggled  such  a  lot 

I  thought  the  thing  would  fall.  —  It  was  a  brown 
Old  carpet  where  a  man  was  sitting  snug 

Who,  when  he  reached  the  ground,  began  to  sew         10 
A  big  hole  in  the  middle  of  the  rug, 

And  kept  on  peeping  everywhere  to  know 
Who  might  be  coming  —  then  he  gave  a  twist 
And  flew  away  ...  I  fired  at  him  but  missed. 


ADVENTURES  OF  SEUMAS  BEG  561 


WHAT   THE    SNAKE    SAW 

A  little  girl  and  a  big,  ugly  man 

Went  down  the  road.     The  girl  was  crying 
And  asking  to  go  home,  but  when  she  ran 

He  hit  her  on  the  head  and  sent  her  flying, 
And  called  her  a  young  imp,  and  said  he'd  break 

Her  neck  unless  she  went  with  him,  and  then 
He  smacked  her  on  the  cheek.  —  I  was  a  snake 

At  that  time  crawling  through  a  robber's  den, 
And  diamonds  were  sticking  to  my  tongue  — 

(That's  the  best  dodge),  but  when  I  saw  the  way 
He  beat  the  little  girl  I  up  and  flung 

A  stone  at  him.     My  aim  was  bad  that  day 
Because  I  hit  the  girl  .  .  .  and  she  did  sing  ! 
But  he  jumped  round  and  cursed  like  anything. 

MIDNIGHT 

And  then  I  wakened  up  in  such  a  fright ; 

I  thought  I  heard  a  movement  in  the  room 
But  did  not  dare  to  look ;  I  snuggled  right 

Down  underneath  the  bedclothes  —  then  the  boom 
Of  a  tremendous  voice  said,  "  Sit  up,  lad, 

And  let  me  see  your  j ace ^     So  up  I  sat. 
Although  I  didn't  want  to.     I  was  glad 

I  did  though,  for  it  was  an  angel  that 
Had  called  me,  and  he  said,  he'd  come  to  know 

Was  I  the  boy  who  wouldn't  say  his  prayers 
Nor  do  his  sums,  and  that  I'd  have  to  go 

Straight  down  to  hell  because  of  such  affairs.* 
.  .  .  I  said  I'd  be  converted  and  do  good 
If  he  would  let  me  off  —  he  said  he  would. 


SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN   (1880-        ) 

James  Starkey  {pseudonym,  "  Seumas  "  —  pronounced  Sha-mus  — 
*  O'Sullivan  ")  was  born  in  1880.     He  has  publishtd  New  Songs  (in 


562  THE   TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

collaboration,  1904),  The  Twilight  People  (1905),  Verses,  Sacred  and 
Profane  (1908),  The  Earth  Lover  (1909),  Selected  Lyrics  (19 10),  Poems 
(collected  edition,  191 2),  An  Epilogue  and  Other  Poems  (1914),  etc. 

Seiimas  O'Sullivan  makes  music  of  varied  strains :  the  strain  of 
his  Fiddler,  printed  below,  caught  from  the  throat  of  a  bird,  —  wild, 
entrancing,  eerie  and  weird,  lUting  beneath  an  iridescent  Celtic 
moon ;  the  tune  of  a  Piper  in  a  city  street,  that  suddenly  interprets 
the  human  hearts  that  are  there  and  sets  them  fluttering ;  the  song 
of  the  lark  in  Mercer  Street,  momentarily  forgetful  of  its  imprison- 
ment, bubbling,  note  on  note,  till  it  springs  against  its  prison  walls  and 
there  is  silence,  — •  or  of  the  larks  and  daffodils,  both  gleeful,  in 
Patrick's  Close,  where  the  thin-faced  children  are  exiled  wanderers  out 
of  the  Age  of  Gold.  Again,  his  music  will  come  crashing  down  in 
peals  of  sardonic  laughter  to  the  realism  of  funerals  passing  out 
Glasnevin  way.  In  a  whispering,  reminiscent,  magical  style,  he 
writes  The  Sheep,  The  Twilight  People,  To  the  End  of  Days,  and  The 
Poplars,  —  poems  of  Celtic  atmosphere  that  remind  one  of  Yeats's 
work.  Of  Seumas  O'SuUivan  in  this  mood  one  critic  has  said:  "He 
is  the  literary  successor  of  those  old  Gaelic  Poets  who  were  fastidious 
in  their  verse,  who  loved  Uttle  in  this  world  but  some  chance  light  in  it 
which  reminded  them  of  fairyland."  In  a  weary  mood  of  monot- 
onous days  and  stagnant  air  he  writes  another  poem  of  Mercer 
Street  and  poems  on  Nelson  Street  and  North  Great  George's  Street. 
He  writes  also  verses  of  child's  fantasies  —  Dead  Letters  and  Omens 
—  which  bring  James  Stephens  to  mind.  O'Sullivan's  moods  are 
as  varied  as  his  subjects,  but  all  his  poetry  has  quality  and  distinc- 
tion. The  poems  mentioned  may  be  found  in  the  collected  edition 
of  191 2  (Maunsel  and  Co.,  Dublin). 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  FIDDLER 

He  had  played  by  the  cottage  fire 
Till  the  dancing  all  was  done, 

But  his  heart  kept  up  the  music 
When  the  last  folk  had  gone. 

So  he  came  through  the  half -door  softly 

And  wandered  up  the  hill, 
In  the  glow  of  his  heart's  desire 

That  was  on  the  music  still. 


THE  BALLAD  OF   THE  FIDDLER  563 

And  he  passed  the  blackthorn  thicket, 

And  he  heard  the  branches  groan, 
As  they  bowed  beneath  the  burden 

Of  the  white  fruit  of  the  moon.  12 

And  he  came  to  the  fairy  circle 

Where  none  but  the  wise  may  sit : 
And  blindness  was  on  him  surely 

For  he  sat  in  the  midst  of  it.  16 

And  maybe  his  heart  went  dreaming. 

Or  maybe  his  thoughts  went  wide, 
But  he  took  his  battered  old  fiddle 

And  he  took  the  bow  from  his  side.  20 

And  he  said,  "  I  will  play  them  such  music 

As  never  a  fairy  heard." 
He  said,  "  I  will  play  them  the  music 

I  stole  from  the  throat  of  a  bird."  24 

And  the  sound  of  his  lilt  went  straying 

By  valley  and  stream  and  sedge 
Till  the  little  white  stars  went  dancing 

Along  the  mountain's  edge.  28 

And  things  came  out  of  the  bushes 

And  out  of  the  grassy  mound 
And  joined  their  hands  in  a  circle 

And  danced  to  the  fiddle's  sound.  32 

And  quicker  and  sweeter  and  stranger 

The  notes  came  hurrying  out 
And  joined  with  a  shriek  and  a  whistle 

In  the  dance  of  the  Goblin  Rout.  36 

And  all  night  long  on  the  green  lands 

They  danced  in  a  'wildered  ring, 
And  every  note  of  the  fiddle 

Was  the  shriek  of  a  godless  thing.  4© 


564  SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN 

And  when  the  winter  morning 

Came  whitely  up  the  glen, 
The  Fiddler's  soul  fled  whistling 

In  the  rout  of  the  Fairy  Men.  44 


IN  MERCER  STREET 

I.    A     ?IPER       ^ 

A  piper  in  the  streets  to-day 
Set  up,  and  tuned,  and  started  to  play. 
And  away,  away,  away  on  the  tide 
Of  his  music  we  started ;  on  every  side 
Doors  and  windows  were  opened  wide. 
And  men  left  down  their  work  and  came. 
And  women  with  petticoats  colored  like  flame 
And  little  bare  feet  that  were  blue  with  cold. 
Went  dancing  back  to  the  age  of  gold, 
And  all  the  world  went  gay,  went  gay, 
For  half  an  hour  in  the  street  to-day. 

II.   lark's  song 

On  Mercer  Street  the  light  slants  down, 
And  straightway  an  enchanted  town 
Is  round  him :  pinnacle  and  spire 
Flash  back,  elate,  the  sudden  fire ; 
And  clear  above  the  silent  street 
Falls  suddenly  and  strangely  sweet 
The  lark's  song.     Bubbling,  note  on  note 
Rise  fountain-like,  o'erflow  and  float 
Tide  upon  tide,  and  make  more  fair 
The  magic  of  the  sunlit  air. 
No  more  the  cage  can  do  him  wrong, 
All  is  forgotten  save  his  song : 
He  has  forgot  the  ways  of  men, 
Wide  heaven  is  over  him  again,  , 


PATRICK'S  CLOSE  565 

And  round  him  the  wide  fields  of  dew  15 

That  his  first  infant  mornings  knew, 

E'er  yet  the  dolorous  years  had  brought 

The  hours  of  captive  anguish,  fraught 

With  the  vile  clamor  of  the  street, 

The  insult  of  the  passing  feet,  20 

The  torture  of  the  daily  round, 

The  organ's  blasphemy  of  sound. 

Sudden  some  old  swift  memory  brings 

The  knowledge  of  forgotten  wings, 

He  springs  elate  and  panting  falls  25 

At  the  rude  touch  of  prison  walls. 

Silence.     Again  the  street  is  grey : 

Shut  down  the  windows  —  Work-a-day. 


PATRICK'S   CLOSE 

In  Patrick's  Close  this  morning 

The  larks  sang  out  so  well. 
So  brave  and  sweet  and  clearly,  - 

That  you  could  hardly  tell 
They  did  not  sing  in  freedom 

Above  some  heathery  dell.  6 

And  daffodils  in  baskets 

Held  out  so  brave  and  gay 
Their  cups  of  golden  laughter, 

You'd  never  know  that  they 
Had  drunk  their  fill  of  sunlight 

Where  skies  are  never  grey.  12 

Only  the  thin-faced  children 

They  looked  so  grave  and  old. 
You'd  know  at  once  for  certain 

Though  you  were  never  told, 
They  were  but  exiled  wanderers 

Out  of  the  Age  of  Gold.  .   18 


566  THE   TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

THE   FUNERALS 

As  I  go  down  Glasnevin  way 

The  funerals  pass  me  day  by  day ; 

Stately,  sombre,  stepping  slow 

The  white-plumed  funeral  horses  go, 

With  coaches  crawling  in  their  wake :  5 

A  long  and  slow  black  glittering  snake 

(Inside  of  every  crawling  yoke 

Silent  cronies  sit  and  smoke). 

Ever  more  as  I  grow  thinner 

Day  by  day  without  a  dinner,  lo 

Every  day  as  I  go  down 

I  meet  the  funerals  leaving  town ; 

Soon  my  procession  will  be  on  view, 

A  hearse  and,  maybe,  a  coach  or  two. 

2.  POETRY  OF  THE   GREAT  WAR 

None  of  the  nobler  English  and  American  poems  of  the  Great  War 
is  the  expression  of  blind  hatred.  Such  poems  when  they  refer  to 
the  foe  are  rather  the  utterance  of  indignation  and  stern  resolve,  as, 
for  instance,  Mr.  Kipling's  For  All  We  Have  and  Are  (already  included 
among  our  selections  from  the  Younger  Victorian  Poets) ,  or  with  the 
same  resolve  they  are  the  utterance  of  surprise,  reproach,  sorrow, 
that  a  power  counted  among  the  foremost  in  the  advance  of  civiliza- 
tion should  have  bartered  its  honor  for  lust  of  dominion  and  forced^ 
the  sword  into  the  hands  of  nations  committed  to  peace.  Of  the 
latter  sort  is  the  address  to  Germany  by  john  drinkwater  (b.  1882), 
We  Willed  it  not.  In  still  other  verses,  such  as  Edith  Cavell,  by 
LAURENCE  BiNYON  (b.  1869),  the  enemy  Stands  self-condemned  before 
the  forgiveness  and  the  pity  of  the  victim  of  his  brutality.  In  the 
deepest  sense  the  poetry  of  the  war  is  patriotic,  but  the  patriotism 
is  not  merely  of  country  and  its  cause.  If  of  country,  as  in  john 
masefield's  subhme  elegy,  August,  igi4  (which  we  regret  we  cannot 
reproduce),  it  is  not  partisanship,  but  a  dedication  to  duty,  supported 
by  the  spiritual  presence  of  heroes  who  in  other  wars,  in  ages  past, 
gave  their  lives  for  an  idea.  It  is  a  dedication  of  self  that  civiliza- 
tion may  be  saved,  a  devotion  to  humanity,  a  determination  to  put 
an  end  to  war  once  for  all ;  it  is,  as  in  Alfred  NOyps's  Princeton  ){i 917) , 


POETRY  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR  567 

a  faith  in  the  coming  kingdom  of  the  Lord.  The  spirit  of  this  patriot- 
ism does  not  express  itself  in  the  old-fashioned  glorification  of  national 
or  individual  values.  It  glories  as  much  as  ever  in  the  nobility  of  the 
valiant  nation,  the  undaunted  soul,  but  its  poetry  rarely  indulges  in 
heroics.  Modern  warfare  sinks  the  individual  in  the  collective  aim 
and  the  compHcated  machinery  of  the  event.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the 
poems  are  of  person  and  incident  historic  or  apparently  trivial,  or  of 
the  mood  —  sublime,  tragic,  pathetic,  or  grimly  humorous  —  as  in  the 
volume  by  WILFRID  wilson  gibson  (b.  1878),  Battle  and  Other  Poems; 
but  such  portrayals  are  flash-lights  of  experience  common  to  vast 
masses  of  mankind  in  upheaval.  More  often  the  poet  —  the  soldier- 
poet  — sings  of  home  and  of  cheer  for  the  loved  ones  there ;  sings  of  the 
cleansing  worth  of  the  effort  and  the  suffering,  the  certainty  of  an 
Eternal  Purpose,  the  beauty  of  death  by  which  not  only  the  soul  is 
saved  but  the  living  are  bettered.  Or  he  sings  of  the  procession  of  the 
seasons  unperturbed  by  the  carnival  of  slaughter,  but  breathing  peace ; 
sometimes  of  nature  consciously  sympathetic  and  giving  courage.  Of 
such  in  one  kind  or  other  are  the  poems  of  Captain  the  Hon.  Jul- 
ian GRENPELL,  Lieutcnant-Colonel  john  mccrae,  Sub-Lieutenant 
RUPERT  BROOKE,  and  ALAN  SEEGER  of  the  Foreign  Legion,  whom, 
though  an  American,  we  have  included  in  this  group  of  generous 
hearts.  The  imperishable  poetry  of  the  war  betrays  no  murmur  of  re- 
volt, no  accent  of  despair ;  it  rejoices  in  the  holiness,  honor,  nobleness 
that  duty  has  recovered  for  mankind,  in  the  victory  that  the  ages 
shall  attain. 

The  four  soldier-poets  here  represented  gave  their  lives.  John 
McCrae  (1872-1918),  a  distinguished  Canadian  physician,  served 
in  the  Boer  War,  and  from  1914  to  1918  in  the  Great  War  as  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel in  the  Medical  Corps.  In  Flanders  Fields  was  written 
during  the  second  battle  of  Ypres,  in  the  spring  of  191 5.  The  poet 
died  of  pneumonia,  January  28,  19 18,  at  the  General  Hospital  in 
Boulogne.  For  his  life  see  the  volume  In  Flanders  Fields  (G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  1919).  —  The  Hon.  Julian  Grenfell  was  the  oldest 
son  of  Lord  Desborough.  He  was  a  Captain  in  the  First  Royal 
Dragoons  and  was  noted  for  his  "light-hearted  and  Hon-hearted  cour- 
age." He  was  wounded  in  the  second  battle  of  Ypres  and  died 
March  13,  1915.  — Alan  Seeger,  born  in  New  York,  1888,  was  edu- 
cated at  Harvard.  He  joined  the  Foreign  Legion  of  France  in  1914 
and  was  a  noble  and  joyous  soldier.  Wounded  on  July  4,  1916, 
he  died  the  next  day.  His  Poems,  with  an  Introduction  by  William 
Archer,  are  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  (1917).  —  Rupert 


568  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

Brooke,  a  poet,  beautiful  and  manly  of  body  and  soul,  was  born  at 
Rugby,  1887.  He  was  a  Fellow  of  King's  College,  Cambridge.  In 
the  Antwerp  Expedition  of  19 14  he  was  Sub-Lieutenant  in  the  Royal 
Naval  Volunteer  Reserve.  In  191 5  he  was  with  the  British  Expedi- 
tionary Force  in  the  ^gean,  and  in  April  of  that  year  he  died.  He 
was  buried  in  the  island  of  Skyros.'  For  his  life  see  his  Collected  Poems, 
191 5,  and  Rupert  Brooke:  a  Memoir  by  Edward  Marsh,  191 8  (both 
published  by  John  Lane  Company,  New  York). 

WE  WILLED  IT  NOT^ 

We  willed  it  not.    We  have  not  lived  in  hate, 
Loving  too  well  the  shires  of  England  thrown 

From  sea  to  sea  to  covet  your  estate, 

Or  wish  one  flight  of  fortune  from  your  throne.  4 

We  had  grown  proud  because  the  nations  stood 

Hoping  together  against  the  calumny 
That,  tortured  of  its  old  barbarian  blood. 

Barbarian  still  the  heart  of  man  should  be.  8 

Builders  there  are  who  name  you  overlord, 

Building  with  us  the  citadels  of  light, 
Who  hold  as  we  this  chartered  sin  abhorred, 

And  cry  you  risen  Caesar  of  the  Night.  12 

Beethoven  speaks  with  Milton  on  this  day, 

And  Shakespeare's  word  with  Goethe's  beats  the  sky, 

In  witness  of  the  birthright  you  betray, 
In  witness  of  the  vision  you  deny.  16 

We  love  the  hearth,  the  quiet  hills,  the  song, 
The  friendly  gossip  come  from  every  land ; 

And  very  peace  were  now  a  nameless  wrong  — 

You  thrust  this  bitter  quarrel  to  our  hand.  20 

For  this  your  pride  the  tragic  armies  go. 
And  the  grim  navies  watch  along  the  seas ; 

^  Used  by  special  permission  of  and  by  arrangement  with  Houghton  Mi£9ip 
Company. 


INTO  BATTLE  569 

You  trade  in  death,  you  mock  at  life,  you  throw 

To  God  the  tumult  of  your  blasphemies.  24 

You  rob  us  of  our  love-right.     It  is  said. 

In  treason  to  the  world  you  are  enthroned. 
We  rise,  and,  by  the  yet  ungathered  dead, 

Not  lightly  shall  the  treason  be  atoned.  28 

John  Drinkwater, 


INTO  BATTLE  1 

The  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 

And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 
Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 

And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze ;  4 

And  life  is  Color  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these ; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight ; 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase.  8 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth ; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run, 

And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth ;  12 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 

Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship,  16 

The  Dog-Star,  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 

Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 

They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend ;  20 

Reprinted,  by  permission,  from  the  London  Times  of  May  28,  1915. 


570  POETRY  OF   THE  GREAT  WAR 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather ; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridges'  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day, 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night,  24 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they, 

As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,  "  Brother,  brother, 

If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing,  28 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another ; 
Brother,  sing." 

In  dreary,  doubtful,  waiting  hours. 

Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts,  32 

The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers ; 

O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts  ! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks, 

And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind,  36 

And  only  Joy-of-Battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind. 

Through  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know, 

Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still  40 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands. 

And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings ;  44 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands, 

And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

Julian  Grenfell. 


THE  MESSAGES  57 1 

^  fi^^  RETREAT  i 

Broken,  bewildered  by  the  long  retreat  ^  j 
Across  the  stifling  leagues  of  southern  plain,!  "^ 
Across  the  scorching  leagues  of  trampled  grain^>l3-' 

Half -stunned,  half-blinded,  by  the  trudge  of  feet '      o^ 

And  dusty  smother  of  the  August  heat,    '^  5 

He  dreamt  of  flowers' in  an  English  lane,"^ 
Of  hedgerow  flowers-  glistening  after  rain  — &' 

AU-healjand  willow-herb!  and  meadow-sweet.      ^^ 

All-heal  and  willow-herb  and  meadow-sweet  —  '^ 

The  innocent  names  kept  up  a  cool  refrain  —  ^         10 

All-heal  and  willow-herb  and  meadow-sweet,       0^ 

Chiming  and  tinkling  in  his  aching  brain,     "V  ^ 

Until  he  babbled  like  a  child  again  —  ^  ^ 

"  All-heal  and  willow-herb  and  meadow-sweet."    ^ 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson. 

THE   MESSAGES 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember  .  .  .     There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench  —  and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  ."  3 

Back  from  the  trenches,  more  dead  than  alive, 
Stone-deaf  and  dazed,  and  with  a  broken  knee. 
He  hobbled  slowly,  muttering  vacantly :  6 

**  I  cannot  quite  remember  .  .  .     There  were  five 

Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench,  and  three 

Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  .  0 

"  Their  friends  are  waiting,  wondering  how  they  thrive  — 

Waiting  a  word  in  silence  patiently.  .  . 

But  what  they  said,  or  who  their  friends  may  be  12 

1  This  and  the  two  following  poems  are  reprinted  from  Battle  and  Other  Poans, 
by  permission  of  The  Maonillan  Company. 


572  POETRY  OF   THE  GREAT  WAR 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember  .  .  .    There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench  —  and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  ."  15 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson. 

SALVAGE 

So  suddenly  her  life 

Had  crashed  about  that  gray  old  country  wife, 

Naked  she  stood,  and  gazed 

Bewildered,  while  her  home  about  her  blazed.  4 

New- widowed,  and  bereft 

Of  her  five  sons,  she  clung  to  what  was  left, 

Still  hugging  all  she'd  got  — 

A  toy  gun  and  a  copper  coffee-pot.  8 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson, 

I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH  ^ 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade. 
When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 
And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air  — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death  s 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 
And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath  — 
It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still.  10 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

^From  Poems  by  Alan  Seeger,  copyright,  1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     By 
permission  of  the  publishers.  , , 


THE  SOLDIER  573 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep  15 

Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath. 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death  20 

At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town. 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger. 


THE  SOLDIER  1 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me : 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware,  S 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less  10 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends ;  and  gentleness. 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  Enghsh  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke, 

THE    DEAD,  I 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead  ! 
There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 

1  This  and  the  two  following  poems  are  reprinted  from  The  Collected  Poems  of 
Rupert  Brooke,  by  permission  of  the  John  Lane  Company,  N.  Y. 


574  POETRY  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 

But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 
These  laid  the  world  away ;  poured  out  the  red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth ;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene. 
That  men  call  age ;  and  those  who  would  have  been. 
Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow  !    They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth, 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honor  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth. 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage ; 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again ; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

Rupert  Brooke. 

THE   DEAD,  II 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares. 

Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 
The  years  had  given  them  kindness.     Dawn  was  theirs, 

And  sunset,  and  the  colors  of  the  earth, 
These  had  seen  movement,  and  heard  music ;  known 

Slumber  and  waking ;  loved ;  gone  proudly  friended ; 
Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder ;  sat  alone ; 

Touched  flowers  and  furs  and  cheeks.     All  this  is  ended. 

There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the  rich  skies,  all  day.     And  after. 

Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
And  wandering  loveliness.     He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night. 

Rupert  Brooke, 


EDITH  CAVELL  57$ 

EDITH   CAVELL 1 

She  was  binding  the  wounds  of  her  enemies  when  they  came  — 

The  lint  in  her  hand  unrolled. 
They  battered  the  door  with  their  rifle-butts,  crashed  it  in : 

She  faced  them  gentle  and  bold.  4 

They  haled  her  before  the  judges  where  they  sat 

In  their  places,  helmet  on  head. 
With  question  and  menace  the  judges  assailed  her,  "  Yes, 

I  have  broken  your  law,"  she  said.  8 

"  I  have  tended  the  hurt  and  hidden  the  hunted,  have  done 

As  a  sister  does  to  a  brother, 
Because  of  a  law  that  is  greater  than  that  you  have  made. 

Because  I  could  do  none  other.  12 

"  Deal  as  you  will  with  me.     This  is  my  choice  to  the  end, 

To  live  in  the  life  I  vowed." 
"  She  is  self-confessed,"  they  cried ;  ''  she  is  self-condemned. 

She  shall  die,  that  the  rest  may  be  cowed."  16 

In  the  terrible  hour  of  the  dawn,  when  the  veins  are  cold, 
They  led  her  forth  to  the  wall. 
:  "  I  have  loved  my  land,"  she  said,  ''  but  it  is  not  enough : 

Love  requires  of  me  all.  20 

\  "  I  will  empty  my  heart  of  the  bitterness,  hating  none." 
And  sweetness  filled  her  brave 
With  a  vision  of  understanding  beyond  the  hour 

That  knelled  to  the  waiting  grave.  24 

They  bound  her  eyes,  but  she  stood  as  if  she  shone. 

The  rifles  it  was  that  shook 
When  the  hoarse  command  rang  out.     They  could  not  endure 

That  last,  that  defenceless  look.  28 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Cause,  by  permission  of  and  arrangement  with  Houghton 
^  Mi^n  Company. 

I   .  ■ 


576  POETRY  OF   THE  GREAT  WAR 

And  the  ofl&cer  strode  and  pistolled  her  surely,  ashamed 

That  men,  seasoned  in  blood, 
Should  quail  at  a  woman,  only  a  woman,  —   , 

As  a  flower  stamped  in  the  mud.  32 

And  now  that  the  deed  was  securely  done,  in  the  night 

When  none  had  known  her  fate. 
They  answered  those  that  had  striven  for  her,  day  by  day : 

"  It  is  over,  you  come  too  late."  36 

And  with  many  words  and  sorrowful-phrased  excuse 

Argued  their  German  right 
To  kill,  most  legally ;  hard  though  the  duty  be. 

The  law  must  assert  its  might.  40 

Only  a  woman  !  yet  she  had  pity  on  them. 

The  victim  offered  slain 
To  the  gods  of  fear  that  they  worship.     Leave  them  there, 

Red  hands,  to  clutch  their  gain  !  44 

She  bewailed  not  herself,  and  we  will  bewail  her  not. 

But  with  tears  of  pride  rejoice 
That  an  English  soul  was  found  so  crystal-clear 

To  be  triumphant  voice  48 

Of  the  human  heart  that  dares  adventure  all 

But  live  to  itself  untrue, 
And  beyond  all  laws  sees  love  as  the  Hght  in  the  night, 

As  the  star  it  must  answer  to.  52 

The  hurts  she  healed,  the  thousands  comforted  —  these 

Make  a  fragrance  of  her  fame. 
But  because  she  stept  to  her  star  right  on  through  death. 

It  is  Victory  speaks  her  name.  56 

Laurence  Binyon. 


PRINCETON    {1917)  577 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS  ^ 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place ;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 

Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below.  s 

We  are  the  Dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow. 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie, 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe :  10 

To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch ;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 

In  Flanders  fields.     .  15 

John  McCrae. 

PRINCETON  2 

{1917) 

(The  lines  introducing  this  poem  were  written  for  inscription  on  the  first  joint 
memorial  to  the  American  and  British  soldiers  who  fell  in  the  Revolutionary  VVar. 
This  memorial  was  recently  dedicated  at  Princeton.) 

Here  Freedom  stood  ^  by  slaughtered  friend  and  foe, 

And  ere  the  wrath  paled  or  that  sunset  died, 
Looked  through  the  ages ;  then,  with  eyes  aglow. 

Laid  them,  to  wait  that  future,  side  by  side. 

Now  lamp-lit  gardens  in  the  blue  dusk  shine 

Through  dogwood  red  and  white. 
And  round  the  gray  quadrangles,  line  by  line, 

The  windows  fill  with  light,  4 

*  Reprinted  from  In  Flanders  Fields,  published  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 
2  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  author,  from  The  New  Morning  (Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Co.,  1919). 

2P 


578  NOYES 

Where  Princeton  calls  to  Magdalen,  tower  to  tower, 

Twin  Ian  thorns  of  the  law, 
And  those  cream-white  magnolia  boughs  embower 

The  halls  of  old  Nassau.  8 

The  dark  bronze  tigers  crouch  on  either  side 

Where  redcoats  used  to  pass. 
And  round  the  bird-loved  house  where  Mercer  died 

And  violets  dusk  the  grass,  12 

By  Stony  Brook  that  ran  so  red  of  old, 

But  sings  of  friendship  now. 
To  feed  the  old  enemy's  harvest  fifty-fold 

The  green  earth  takes  the  plough.  16 

Through  this  May  night  if  one  great  ghost  should  stray 

With  deep  remembering  eyes. 
Where  that  old  meadow  of  battle  smiles  away 

Its  blood-stained  memories,  20 

K  Washington  should  walk,  where  friend  and  foe 

Sleep  and  forget  the  past. 
Be  sure  his  unquenched  heart  would  leap  to  know 

Their  hosts  are  joined  at  last.  24 

Be  sure  he  walks,  in  shadowy  buff  and  blue, 

Where  those  dim  lilacs  wave. 
He  bends  his  head  to  bless,  as  dreams  come  true. 

The  promise  of  that  grave ;  28 

Then,  with  a  vaster  hope  than  thought  can  scan. 

Touching  his  ancient  sword. 
Prays  for  that  mightier  realm  of  God  in  man : 

"  Hasten  Thy  Kingdom,  Lord.  32 

*'  Land  of  new  hope,  land  of  the  singing  stars, 

Type  of  the  world  to  be. 
The  vision  of  a  world  set  free  from  wars 

Takes  life,  takes  form,  from  thee,  36 

Where  all  the  jarring  nations  of  this  earth, 

Beneath  the  all-blessing  sun, 


PRINCETON    (1917)  579 

Bring  the  new  music  of  mankind  to  birth, 
And  make  the  whole  world  one."  40 

And  those  old  comrades  rise  around  him  there, 

Old  foemen,  side  by  side, 
With  eyes  like  stars  upon  the  brave  night-air, 

And  young  as  when  they  died,  44 

To  hear  your  bells,  O  beautiful  Princeton  towers. 

Ring  for  the  world's  release. 
They  see  you,  piercing  like  gray  swords  through  flowers. 

And  smile  from  souls  at  peace.  48 

Alfred  Noyes. 


ENGLISH  POETRY 
NOTES 

[Abbreviations:  Diet,  (any  unabridged  dictionary,  such  as  the  Century, 
the  International,  or  the  Standard);  CI.  D.  (any  good  dictionary  of  classical 
mythology);  CI.  M.  (Gayley's  Classic  Myths  in  English  Literature  and  in 
Art.  Revised  Edition.  Ginn  &  Company).  —  References  to  the  Intro- 
duction TO  Poetry  are  indicated  by  section  and  subsection,  thus :  §§  19 ; 

30,  2.] 

CHAUCER 

THE   PROLOGUE   TO   THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 

The  Canterbury  Tales  were  written  probably  during  the  last  twelve  or  fif- 
teen years  of  Chaucer's  life,  i.e.  between  1385  and  1400.  It  is  impossible 
to  conjecture  the  order  in  which  they  were  written,  or  to  make  any  definite 
guess  as  to  just  when  the  Prologue  was  composed. '  Though  the  Prologue  un- 
doubtedly appeared  at  a  later  date  than  some  of  the  Tales,  it  is  measurably 
certain  that  this  date  was  not  later  than  1390.  This  would  place  it  nearly  one 
hundred  years  before  the  invention  of  the  printing-press;  over  one  hundred 
years  before  the  discovery  of  America;  nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
before  the  time  of  Milton's  earliest  poems.  Owing  to  the  remote  period  of 
this  composition,  the  student  will  naturally  find  certain  difficulties  which  he 
does  not  meet  in  poetr>^  of  a  later  date.  He  will  see  constant  allusion  to 
beliefs  and  experiences,  very  real  in  Chaucer's  time,  but  utterly  foreign  to  the 
modern  world.  Perhaps  in  no  way  so  well  as  by  the  study  of  this  Prologue 
can  we  to-day  enter  into  the  life  of  the  England  of  five  hundred  years  ago. 
We  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  language  which  in  grammatical  construction, 
in  peculiarity  of  phrase,  in  form  and  meaning  of  word,  transports  us  from  the 
present  to  an  antique  world.  If  we  would  gain  anything  li^e  the  proper  ap- 
preciation of  Chaucer's  verse,  we  must  learn  to  read  it  aloud,  pronouncing  it 
as  nearly  as  possible  as  he  himself  would  have  pronounced  it.  The  following 
are  a  few  rules  which  will  apply  to  a  solution  of  most  of  the  difl5culties  to  be 
met  in  mastering  this  pronunciation: 

1.  Vowels  were  sounded  in  Chaucer's  time  very  nearly  as  in  Latin:  h  long 
or  aa,  like  a  in  father ;  &  short,  like  a  in  what  (never  like  a  in  cat) ;  e  long 
or  ee,  sometimes  like  e  in  there  and  sometimes  like  a  in  fate  ;  e  short,  like  e  in 
met ;  i  (or  y)  long  or  ii,  like  i  in  machine;  i  (or  y)  short,  like  i  in  pin  ;  6  long 
or  00,  like  0  in  old  (00  never  like  00  in  pool) ;   6  short,  like  0  in  obey  (never 

581 


582  NOTES   TO  CHAUCER 

like  0  in  not);  u  long,  like  the -French  u  or  German  w,  nearly  like  u  in  mute; 
u  short,  like  ii  in  put  (never  like  u  in  but).  Final  e  is  sounded  like  a  in  Cz<6a, 
and  is  generally  pronounced  in  Chaucer,  save  when  it  is  followed  by  a  word 
beginning  with  a  vowel  or  the  aspirate  h.  This  fact  must  never  be  lost  sight 
of  in  reading.  Indeed,  as  a  general  rule,  there  are  in  Chaucer  as  many  syl- 
lables to  be  pronounced  as  there  are  vowels  or  diphthongs. 

2.  Diphthongs,  or  double  vowels,  were  sounded  as  follows :  ai  and  ay,  like 
ay  in  gay^  according  to  some  editors  ;  but,  more  probably,  nearly  like  i  in 
pine  ;  ei  and  ey,  like  ai,  —  that  is,  like  i  in  pine.  (Some  editors  sound  it 
like  e  in  there,  and  still  others  like  ei  in  veil ;  but  both  of  these  pronunciations 
are  questionable) ;  au  and  aw,  like  ow  in  how  ;  oi  and  oy ,  like  oy  in  boy  ;  ou 
and  ow,  like  00  in  pool  —  sometimes  like  long  0  gliding  into  00  (but  never  as  in 
house  or  how);  eu  and  ew,  like  u  long.     (See  above.) 

3.  Consonants  were  sounded  as  in  modern  English,  except  as  follows : 
c,  hard  like  k,  except  before  e  and  /,  and  like  s,  before  e  and  i  (never  like  sh 
as  in  ocean) ;  f ,  generally  like  f  in  of  rather  than  /  in  of  ;  g,  hard  as  in  go 
except  before  e  and  i,  and  soft  as  in  gin  before  e  and  i  ;  gh,  nearly  like  ch  in 
the  German  word  auch  ;  gn,  like  w,  the  vowel  preceding  being  pronounced 
long  ;  ng,  like  ng  in  finger  —  possibly  sometimes  like  ng  in  singing  (though 
Skeat  does  not  admit  this  pronunciation) ;  r,  always  roUed  or  trilled  with  the 
tip  of  the  tongue  ;  s  final,  generally  like  5.9  in  hiss  ;  s,  between  two  vowels  in 
the  middle  of  a  word,  generally  like  ^  in  his  (s  is  never  pronounced  like  sh  or 
zh);  t  (never  like  sh  as  in  nation);  z  (never  like  zh  as  in  azure). 

These  are  practically  all  the  rules  which  need  be  observed  by  the  student ; 
for  further  aid  he  must  depend  on  the  oral  instruction  of  the  teacher.  The 
latter  may  indefinitely  add  to  these  simple  rules  by  choosing  from  those  given 
in  the  various  editions  of  Chaucer.  Though  no  one  at  the  present  time  can 
more  than  approximately  reach  the  exact  pronunciation  of  the  poet,  still  there 
will  be  found  a  charm  in  even  this  approximation  which  will  amply  justify  the 
time  spent  upon  it. 

As  a  further  aid  to  the  student,  we  have  indicated  those  accentuations  of 
words  (mostly  of  Latin  and  of  Norman-French  origin)  which  differ  from 
present  usage  ;  and  have  italicized  the  vowels  of  those  syllables  which  are 
not  pronounced,  the  assumption  being  that,  as  in  Latin,  there  is  otherwise 
a  syllable  to  be  sounded  for  every  vowel  or  diphthong. 

The  Prologue  rhymes  in  couplets.  Many  of  the  couplets  are  "  run-on  "  ; 
i.e.  the  thought  runs  on  from  one  couplet  to  another,  instead  of  being  brought 
to  a  close  at  the  end  of  the  couplet  as  is  generally  the  case  in  Pope  and  other 
eighteenth-century  poets  who  employ  this  form  of  verse,  (See  Pope's  Rape  of 
the  Lock,  m  this  book.)  The  metre  is  iambic  pentameter,  a  large  proportion 
of  the  lines,  however,  being  hypercatalectic.  See  Introduction  to  this  book, 
§§  19;  20,  2,  4 ;  24,  I.  A  knowledge  of  the  metre  will  not  infrequently  aid 
the  student  in  pronouncing  difficult  lines.  Some  lines  are  truncated,  i.e. 
lacking  in  the  first  unaccented  syllable.  See  11.  170,  247,  294,  384,  391, 
and  Introduction,  as  above;  for  descriptive  narrative  poetry  see  §  31,  8. 


PROLOGUE  583 

In  the  following  notes,  peculiarities  of  grammatical  inflection,  and  other 
frequently  recurring  peculiarities,  will  be  noted  the  first  three  times  they 
occur. 

1-18.  I .  Whan  that.  The  use  of  that,  after  such  connectives  as  when,  if, 
because,  after,  and  the  like,  continued  common  until  after  the  time  of  Shake- 
speare, shoures.  Plurals  end  generally  in  es\  sometimes  in  s.  Observe 
how  the  original  spelling  of  the  poet's  words  seems  to  carry  us  back  in  feeling 
to  his  time  and  environment.  As  Mr.  Ingraham  says  in  his  edition  of  \ht Pro- 
logue, "  I  see  and  hear  in  shoures  drops  of  water  falling  from  a  darkened  sky 
on  field  and  river  ;  while  showers  are  predicted  in  the  newspapers  by  those 
who  know  of  the  wind  whence  it  cometh  and  whither  it  goeth."  sote,  sweet. 
For  its  more  modern  form,  see  '  swete,'  1.  5.  2.  perced  to  the  rote,  pierced 
to  the  root.  The  final  e  here  is  a  sign  of  the  dative.  3-4.  And  bathed  .  .  . 
flour.  "  And  bathed  every  vein  (of  the  tree  or  herb)  in  such  C  swich ')  mois- 
ture, by  means  of  which  quickening  power,  or  vital  energy  (' vertu'),  the 
flower  is  generated."  (Skeat.)  5.  Zephirus.  For  the  gentle  west  wind,  see 
CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  38.  eek,  also.  6.  Inspired,  in  its  radical  sense  (from 
Lat.  in-{-spiro).  holt,  wood.  7.  croppes,  shoots,  tree-tops.  For  form  of 
plural  see  note  on  'shoures,'  1.  i.  yonge.  The  e  is  used  when  the  definite 
article  precedes.  7-8.  yonge  sonne  .  .  .  y-ronne.  The  sun  on  crossing 
the  equator  at  the  March  equinox  (March  12,  old  style)  entered  Aries,  or  the 
Ram,  the  first  sign  of  the  Zodiac,  out  of  which  it  passed  on  April  11,  into 
Taurus,  or  the  Bull.  Hence  it  is  the  '  young  sun,'  as  it  has  passed  through 
only  the  first  sign  of  the  Zodiac,  the  Ram.  The  April  sun  has,  moreover, 
completed  that  half-course  which  falls  in  the  Ram  {i.e.  the  last  portion  of 
the  Ram  which  extended  to  April  11).  From  the  mention  of  a  definite  date 
in  a  later  part  of  the  poem,  we  know  that  the  sun  had  also  run  five  days 
into  the  sign  of  the  Bull,  i.e.  that  it  was  now  the  i6th  of  April  :  see  picture 
of  Zodiac  in  unabridged  dictionary.  8.  y-ronne.  For  i  or  y  as  a  sign  of  the 
past  participle,  see  note  on  '  yclept,'  L'i4//gg.  (12).  9.  smale  fowles,  little 
birds.  Most  adjectives,  especially  monosyllables,  end  in  e  when  they  modify 
plural  nouns.  9.  maken,  and  10.  slepen.  Plural  verbs  end  generally  in  «, 
sometimes  in  ew.  ye,  eye.  11.  So  .  .  .  corages.  Nature  so  spurs  them  on 
in  their  hearts  ('  corages,'  from  Lat.  cor).  For  final  es  in  '  corages,'  see  note 
on  '  shoures,'  1.  i,  and  '  croppes,' 1.  7.  Note  the  plural  possessive  (genitive) 
iiir,  and  the  plural  objective  (accusative)  hem.  12.  longen.  For  plural 
verb  form,  see  note  on  '  maken  '  and  '  slepen,'  11.  9, 10.  goon.  The  infinitive 
ends  generally  in  e,  sometimes  in  en  or  n.  13.  palmers,  originally  pilgrims 
who  had  gone  to  the  Holy  Land  and  had  brought  back  a  palm-branch,  after- 
ward borne  as  a  sign  of  their  journey.  Later,  as  in  Chaucer,  the  word  seems 
to  mean  any  pilgrim  to  foreign  countries,  who,  renouncing  home  and  property, 
spends  his  whole  life  in  pious  wanderings,  seken.  For  form  of  infinitive, 
see  note  on  *  goon,'  1.  12.  14.  feme  halwes,  distant  holy  ones,  i.e.  the 
shrines  of  saints.  Cf.  "  All  Hallow-e'en,"  All  Saints'  eve.  coutbe,  known. 
Siondry,  various.     15.   shires,  county's.    The  possessive  (genitive)  singular 


584  NOTES   TO  CHAUCER 

of  nouns  usually  ends  in  es.  16.  Caunterbury  :  see  map  of  England.  In 
Kent,  fifty  miles  southeast  of  London,  wende,  go,  as  in  the  phrase  "  to 
wend  one's  way."  17.  blisful,  blessed,  martir.  Thomas  a  Becket,  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  murdered  at  the  altar,  in  11 70,  by  four  minions  of 
Henry  II,  was  canonized  in  1 1 73.  seke,  seek.  This  is  the  usual  form  of  the 
infinitive  :  see  note  on  '  goon,'  1.  12.  18.  hem  :  see  note  on  *  hem,'  1.  11. 
holpen,  helped.  The  past  participle  of  strong  verbs  end^  in  en  or  e.  seke, 
sick. 

19-34.  19.  Bifel :  It  happened,  on  a,  one.  20.  Tabard  :  an  inn  in 
Southwark  (now  a  part  of  London).  The  name  was  derived  from  the  sign  of 
the  inn,  a  tabard,  or  kind  of  sleeveless  coat.  21.  wenden  :  see  note  on 
'  goon,'  1.  12,  and  'seken,'  1.  13.  22.  corige  :  see  1.  11.  23.  hostelrye,  inn. 
Look  up  derivation  of  hotel,  hospital,  host.  24.  "Wei,  fully.  25.  by  ^ven- 
ture,  by  chance,  y-falle  :  see  note  on  1.  8.  27.  wolden,  wished  :  see  note 
on  '  maken  '  and  *  seken,'  11.  9  and  10,  and  '  longen,'  1.  12.  ryde,  an  in- 
finitive modifying  *  wolden.'  29.  esed  atte  beste,  entertained  in  the  best 
manner.  31.  So,  to  such  effect,  hem  :  see  note  on  '  hem,'  11.  11  and  18. 
everichon,  every-each-one,  i.e.  every  single  one.  32.  hir  :  seel.  11.  anon, 
immediately.  33.  made  forward  (A.-S. /ore- wearrf,  fore- ward,  precaution), 
made  an  agreement.  34.  as,  where.  Never  in  its  present  sense.  It  is 
generally  preceded  by  ther.  I  yow  devyse,  I  am  telling  you  about,  i.e. 
Canterbury. 

35-42.  35.  natheles,  nevertheless.  36.  pace,  proceed.  37.  Me  think- 
eth  :  this  does  not  come  from  the  same  root  as  the  verb  thijik,  but  from 
another  A.-S.  verb  thincan,  to  appear.  Me  is  a  dative  like  the  German  mir. 
Hence  the  verb  retains  its  radical  meaning,  —  it  appears  to  me.  acordaunt, 
according.  39.  me  :  dative  after  the  impersonal  verb.  40.  whiche,  what 
kind  of  men.    41.   eek  :  cf.  1.  5. 

43-78.  The  Knight.  45.  ryden  out,  to  go  on  his  adventures.  46.  fredom, 
liberality.  47.  lordes,  probably  the  king.  For  the  ending,  see  note  on 
'  shires,'  1.  15.  werre  (dative),  war  ;  perhaps  in  France.  48.  ther-to,  be- 
sides, ferre,  comparative  of  fer,  far.  49.  hethenesse,  heathendom.  Cf. 
Christendom.  51.  Alisaundre,  Alexandria  in  Egypt,  won  from  the  Moham- 
medans in  1365.  52.  the  bord  bigonne,  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  (at 
state  dinners  as  a  mark  of  the  honor  due  to  him).  53.  Aboven  alle  naciouns 
in  Pruce,  above  the  representatives  of  all  nations  in  Prussia.  54.  Lettow, 
Lithuania,  later  divided  between  Russia  and  Prussia,  rey sed,  made  military 
expeditions.  Ruce,  Russia.  56.  Gernade,  Granada,  in  southern  Spain. 
eek  :  cf.  11.  5  and  41.  57.  Algezir,  Algeciras,  a  city  on  the  south  coast  of 
Granada.  The  knight  had  been  at  this  siege,  in  1344.  Skeat  suggests  that 
the  year  of  this  story  is  1386.  From  this  we  may  estimate  the  knight's  age. 
riden  :  see  note  on  1.  45.  Belmarye,  Benmarin,  a  Moorish  kingdom  in 
northern  Africa.  58.  Lyeys,  Ayas  in  Armenia,  won  from  the  Turks  in  1367. 
Satalye,  Adalia  on  the  south  coast  of  Asia  Minor,  also  taken  from  the  Turks  in 
1362.     Observe  that  these  are  all  Christian  victories  over  the  Mohammedans. 


PROLOGUE  585 

59.  Grete  See,  the  eastern  Mediterranean.  60.  aryve,  disembarkation 
(arrival)  of  troops.  61.  mortal,  deadly  (from  Lat.  mors,  death).  62.  Tra- 
missene,  Tremessen,  a  Moorish  kingdom  in  northern  Africa.  63.  In  listes 
thryes.  He  had  fought  for  his  religion  three  times,  in  lists  or  personal  com- 
bats, having  been  challenged,  no  doubt,  by  some  Mohammedan  knight,  ay, 
always.  64.  ilke,  same.  65.  Somtyme,  once  upon  a  time.  Palatye, 
Palathia,  in  Anatolia  (Asia  Minor).  66.  Ageyn  another  hethen  in  Turkye. 
He  had  fought  with  the  lord  of  Palathia,  a  Christian  knight,  against  still 
another  heathen  in  Turkey.  67.  sovereyn  prys,  the  greatest  reputation. 
68.  thogh  that  :  see  note  on  '  whan  that,' 1.  i.  worthy  .  .  .  wys.  Though 
he  was  a  bold  and  distinguished  man  ('  worthy  '),  he  was  nevertheless  pru- 
dent (*  wys  ')•  70-  vileinye,  ungentlemanly  speech,  showing  low  taste  or 
breeding,  never,  no,  ne,  no.  Explain  the  force  of  these  double  negatives, 
remembering  that  even  as  late  as  Shakespeare  they  did  not  constitute  an 
affirmative.  71.  no  maner  wight,  no  man  of  any  kind.  72.  verray,  very, 
parfit,  perfect,  gentil  (Lat.  gens),  of  high  birth  and  breeding.  73.  array, 
dress  and  equipment.  74.  hors,  evidently  plural,  as  indicated  by  the  num- 
ber of  the  verb  and  of  the  adjective.  Some  neuter  nouns  have  the  same  form 
in  both  numbers,  gode,  plural,  see  note  on  1.  9.  he,  i.e.  the  Knight,  gay, 
gayly  dressed.  75.  fustian  :  see  Diet,  gipoun,  a  short,  closefitting  coat, 
generally  worn  under  armor.  76.  bismotered,  soiled  or  stained  as  with 
blood  or  rust,  with  his  habergeoun,  from  his  coat  of  mail  (A.-S.  heals- 
beorgan,  neck-protector).  For  scansion  see  Introduction,  §  20,  2.  77. 
y-come  :  see  note  on  '  y-ronne,'  I.  8.  viage,  journey  or  travels.  78.  wente 
for  to  doon,  on  returning,  immediately  started  out  to  '  do  '  ,or  go  on  the 
pilgrimage  which  he  had  vowed  to  make. 

79-100.  The  Squyer.  80.  lovyere,  a  lover,  as  in  romances  of  chivalry. 
bacheler,  aspirant  for  knighthood.  Cf.  the  phrase  "  bachelor  of  Arts,"  and 
look  up  derivation.  81.  lokkes  cruUe,  locks  curled,  presse,  curling  tongs, 
or  some  fourteenth-century  substitute  for  them.  82.  yeer.  For  number,  see 
note  on  1.  74.  83.  evene,  proper,  well  proportioned.  84.  deliver,  active. 
85.  chivachye,  a  cavalry  raid  (Fr.  cheval ;  Lat.  caballus,  horse).  86.  Flaun- 
dres,  Flanders,  a  province  now  comprising  portions  of  northern  France 
and  southern  Belgium  and  Holland.  Artoys,  Picardye,  Artois,  Picardy, 
French  provinces.  87.  litel  space,  limited  time  or  opportunity.  88.  lady, 
some  possessives  (genitives)  are  uninflected.  89.  Embrouded,  embroidered. 
91.  fioytinge,  probably  playing  the  flute,  though  some  suggest  "  whistling." 

95.  coude  endyte,  knew  how  to  (from  A.-S.  cunnan,  to  know)  compose. 

96.  Juste,   tilt  or  joust  at   tournaments,     purtreye,   portray,   i.e.   draw. 

97.  nightertale,    night-time.     99.  servisable,    willing    to    be    of    service. 
100.  carf  biforn,  carved  in  front  of,  or  for. 

101-117.  The  Yeman.  loi.  he.  Does  this  refer  to  the  Knight  or  to 
the  Squyer?  na-mo  :  cf.  '  na-more,'  1.  98.  102.  him  liste,  it  pleased  hrni 
to.  ryde.  For  the  infinitive  ending,  see  note  on  1.  12.  104.  A  sheef  of 
pecok-arwes,  a  sheaf  of  arrows  with  peacock's  feathers,  much  liked  because 


586  NOTES   TO  CHAUCER 

of  their  gay  appearance.  io6.  dresse  his  takel  yemanly  :  care  for  his 
arrows  in  a  manner  befitting  a  yeoman.  107.  drouped  noght  with  fetheres 
lowe.  He  took  such  pains  with  his  '  takel '  that  the  feathers  did  not  droop 
low,  or  get  pressed  out  of  shape.  109.  not-heed,  a  head  cropped,  and  like 
a  nut.  no.  coude,  knew.  in.  bracer,  a  leather  guard  for  the  archer's 
coat-sleeve.  112.  bokeler,  a  buckler,  or  small  shield.  114.  Harneisedwel: 
equipped  well,  as  regards  hilt,  sheath,  and  the  like.  115.  Cristofre,  an 
image  of  St.  Christopher  worn  as  a  brooch  or  charm  against  danger.  (From 
a  Greek  word  meaning  the  bearer  of  Christ  :  see  back  of  Webster's  Diet., 
or  Century  Diet.  Proper  Names.)  shene,  bright  or  shining.  116.  bawdrik, 
a  broad  belt  worn  over  one  shoulder  and  under  the  opposite  arm  ;  a  baldric. 
117.  forster,  a  forester  or  huntsman,     soothly,  truly. 

118-164.  The  Prioresse.  119.  coy,  quiet.  120.  seynt  Loy,  St.  Eligius 
or  St.  Eloi,  a  humble  saint,  who  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventh  cen- 
tury. There  have  been  many  conjectures  as  to  why  the  prioress  invokes 
this  particular  saint.  Some  think  it  signifies  that  she  swore  not  at  all,  since 
St.  Eligius  is  said  to  have  once  refused  to  take  an  oath  ;  or  again,  perhaps, 
she  came  from  the  district  of  St.  Loye's  in  Bedford.  121.  cleped  :  see  note 
on  UAlleg.  (12).  123.  Entuned,  intoned,  or  chanted,  semely,  becomingly. 
124.  fetisly,  properly,  elegantly.  125.  scole  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe  :  the 
dialect  of  French  which  had  grown  up  in  England,  or  Anglo-French,  which 
she  had  doubtless  learned  from  the  Benedictine  nuns  of  Stratford-at-Bow, 
near  London.  127.  mete,  food  or  meals.  129.  sauce,  broth  or  gravy. 
130.  carie,  carry  to  her  mouth,  kepe,  take  care.  131.  fiUe,  should  fall. 
132.  curteisye,  court  manners,  ful  moche  hir  lest.  Her  delight  or  pleasure 
C  lest ')  was  very  much,  etc.  134.  ferthing,  farthing  or  a  fourth,  hence  a 
very  small  portion  or  morsel.  136.  mete  :  ef.  1.  127.  raughte,  reached. 
137.  sikerly,  securely,  i.e.  certainly,  disport,  readiness  to  be  entertained  or 
amused.  139.  peyned  hir,  she  took  pains,  countrefete  chere,  imitate  the 
appearance  or  manner.  140.  to  been  estatlich  of  manere,  to  be  stately  of 
manners  or  bearing.  141.  digne  (from  Lat.  dignus),  worthy,  reverence, 
respect  or  esteem.  142.  conscience,  sensitiveness.  144.  if  that  :  see  note 
on  '  whan  that,'  1.  i.  145.  deed  or  bledde,  dead  or  were  bleeding. 
146.  houndes,  dogs  (ef.  Ger.  hund).  147.  wastel,  cake.  148.  oon,  one. 
hem  :  ef.  1.  11.  149.  men,  one,  anybody  (ef.  Ger.  man),  smoot  it  with  a 
yerde  smerte,  struck  it  smartly  ('  smerte ')  with  a  stick  ('  yerde ').  150.  con- 
science :  ef.  1.  142.  151.  semely  :  cf.  I..123.  wimpel,  a  covering  for  the 
neck,  or  for  the  neck  and  chin,  worn  by  nuns,  pinched,  plaited.  152.  tretys, 
well  proportioned,  eyen,  eyes.  Some  few  plurals  end  in  en.  Cf.  oxen. 
153.  ther-to  :  see  note  on  1.  48.  reed,  red.  154.  sikerly  :  see  1.  137. 
156.  hardily,  same  as  '  sikerly,'  1.  154.  i57-  fetis,  neat.  Cf.  1.  124,  war, 
aware.  159.  peire,  pair  or  set.  gauded  al  with  grene,  having  every 
eleventh  bead  a  large  green  gaud,  or  gaudy,  —  the  bead  in  the  rosary  at 
•which,  the  "  Paternoster  "  is  recited.  160.  shene:  seel.  115.  161.  crowned 
A.    The  brooch  which  the  prioress  wore  appears  to  have  been  a  locket,  rather 


PROLOGUE  587 

than  a  clasp  pin,  and  to  have  had  the  form  of  a  capital  A  surmounted  by  a 
crown.  162.  Amor  vincit  omnia,  the  well-known  quotation  from  Virgil. 
163-164.  Another  Nonne  .  .  .  Preestes  three.  Take  note  that  the  second 
nun,  or  chaplain  of  the  prioress,  and  the  three  attendant  priests,  bring  the 
number  of  characters  mentioned  thus  far  to  eight,  Chaucer's  '  Wei  nyne  and 
twenty,'  1.  24,  are  really  thirty,  exclusive  of  the  poet  himself  and  Harry 
Bailey,  the  host  of  the  Tabard. 

165-207.  The  Monk.  165.  a  fan-  for  the  maistrye,  a  man  who  seemed 
likely  to  excel,  or  to  receive  promotion.  166,  out-rydere,  the  ojB&cer  of  a 
monastery  whose  business  it  was  to  look  after  the  outlying  manors  belonging 
to  the  order,  venerye,  hunting.  168.  deyntee  (Lat.  dignitas),  valuable. 
170.  Ginglen,  jinghng  of  the  bells  on  the  bridle.  172.  as  :  see  note  on  1.  34. 
keper  of  the  celle,  superior  of  the  monastery.  173.  reule  :  in  apposition 
with  it  in  the  next  line,  seint  Maure  and  seint  Beneit.  Benedict,  the 
founder  of  the  Benedictine  order  in  the  sixth  century,  and  Maure,  his  disciple, 
laid  down  the  oldest  forms  of  monastic  discipline  in  the  church,  som-del 
streit,  somewhat  strict,  narrow.  175.  ilke,  same,  olde  thinges  pace,  old 
things  pass  by.  176.  And  heeld  after  the  newe  world  the  space,  "  held 
his  course  in  conformity  with  the  new  order  of  things."  (Skeat.)  177.  yaf 
nat  of,  gave  not  for.  pulled  hen,  a  plucked  hen  —  the  value  of  which  is 
assumed  to  be  very  small.  i79.'recchelees,  heedless  of  the  regulations  of 
church  discipline.  180.  waterlees,  out  of  water.  181.  this  is  .  .  .  cloistre. 
This  line  is  evidently  in  explanation  of  1.  179,  182.  thilke,  that  same. 
183.  And  I  seyde,  etc.  Observe  how  the  poet  appears  to  draw  out  the 
monk  by  pretending  to  agree  with  his  views,  184.  What,  why.  wood,  mad, 
crazy.  185.  to  poure,  by  poring.  186.  swinken,  toil.  187.  As  Austin 
bit,  as  St.  Augustine  bids.  St.  Augustine  (fourth  century),  as  well  as  St, 
Benedict  (1,  173),  taught  that  monks  should  be  diligent,  not  only  in  study, 
but  also  in  manual  labor.  188.  Lat  .  .  .  reserved,  let  St.  Augustine  keep 
his  work  to  himself,  189.  pricasour,  hard  rider.  190.  fowel  :  cf.  1.  9. 
191.  Of  priking,  in  spurring  ;  hard  riding.  192.  lust,  desire  or  pleasure. 
193.  seigh,  saw.  purfiled,  edged  or  fringed.  194.  grys,  a  gray  fur,  very 
costly.  198.  balled,  bald.  199.  anoint,  anointed.  200.  in  good  point 
(Fr.  en  bon  point,  —  embonpoint),  in  good  condition,  meaning  about  the 
same  as  *  full  fat.'  201.  eyen  :  see  note  on  1.  152.  stepe,  prominent. 
202.  That  stemed  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed,  that  glowed  as  a  furnace  under  a 
caldron  (of  lead).  203.  His  botes  souple,  his  boots  soft  and  pHable.  greet 
estat,  fine  condition.  205.  for-pyned  goost,  ghost  wasted  away  by  torment, 
207.  berye.  Observe  how  portraits  of  the  characters  are  linked  together  by 
the  division  of  the  couplet  between  them.    Cf.  269,  270 ;  387,  388 ;  541,  542, 

208-269.  The  Frere.  208.  wantown,  lively,  209.  limitour,  a  mendi- 
cant friar,  who  had  a  definite  limit  assigned  to  him  in  which  he  might  solicit 
alms,  solempne  (Lat.  solemnis),  pompous  or  self-satisfied.  210.  ordres 
foure.  The  four  orders  of  the  mendicant  friars  were  the  Dominicans,  the 
Franciscans,  the  Carmelites,  and  the  Augustinians.     can,  knows.     211.  dal- 


588  NOTES  TO  CHAUCER 

iaunce  and  fair  langage,  entertaining  and  flattering  talk.  214.  post,  as  we 
now  say  "  a  pillar  of  the  church."  216.  frankeleyn,  a  wealthy  landholder ;  a 
sort  of  country  squire,  over-al,  everywhere.  217.  worthy  :  see  note  on 
1.  459.  220.  licentiat,  a  friar  licensed  by  the  pope  to  hear  confessions, 
grant  absolution,  or  administer  penance  —  in  all  cases  independently  of  the 
local  curate  or  parish  priest,  whose  powers  were  more  restricted.  Cf.  1.  219. 
223.  yeve  (same  as  '  yive,'  1.  225),  give.  224.  as  :  see  note  on  1.  34.  wiste 
to  han,  knew  ('  wiste  ')  that  he  would  gain,  pitaunce,  literally,  mess  of 
victuals.  225-232.  For  .  .  .  freres  :  cf.  11.  184-188.  In  both  passages 
Chaucer  with  sly  humor  and  pretended  seriousness  reflects  the  process  by 
which  his  characters  reason.  227.  yaf,  past  tense  of  '  yeve  '  or  '  yive.'  he 
dorste  make  avaunt,  he  (the  friar)  dares  make  his  boast.  230,  may,  can. 
him  sore  smerte,  though  it  pains  him  sorely.  232.  men  moot  :  one  ought 
to.  For  *  men,'  see  note  on  1.  149.  233.  His  tipet  was  ay  farsed,  his  cape 
was  always  stuffed.  234.  yeven  :  see  note  on  'goon,'  1.  12.  236.  rote, 
some  kind  of  stringed  instrument,  perhaps  a  sort  of  guitar.  237.  Of  .  .  . 
prys,  i.e.  in  the  singing  of  ballads  he  utterly  (or  absolutely)  bore  away 
(or  took)  the  prize.  238.  His  nekke  whyt,  etc.  Notice  Chaucer's  naivete. 
He  is  restricted  by  no  set  rules  of  poetic  art.  Whether  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, he  seems  to  pass,  in  his  descriptions,  from  one  point  to  another, 
with  a  child's  simple  delight  at  finding  new  things  to  see.  Thus,  in  successive 
lines,  his  '  frere  '  sings  ballads,  has  a  white  neck,  is  athletic,  fond  of  con- 
viviality, self-seeking.  241.  everich  :  see  note  on  '  everichon,'  1.  31. 
hostiler,  the  keeper  of  a  '  hostelrye  '  :  cf.  1.  23.  tappestere,  barmaid.  The 
masculine  form  was  tapster,  beggestere  (242)  is  likewise  the  feminine  of 
beggar.  242.  Bet,  better  (adv.).  lazar,  leper  (from  Lazan^^).  243.  swich: 
cf.  1.  3.  244.  as  by  his  facultee,  considering  his  abilities.  245.  seke  :  cf. 
1.18.  246.  honest,  seemly  or  becoming,  avaunce,  advance  one.  247.  por- 
aille,  poor  people.  249.  over-al  :  see  1.  216.  as  :  see  note  on  1.  34. 
251.  vertuous,  efficient  in  his  undertakings.  253.  sho,  shoe.  254.  In 
principio,  from  John  i.  i.  In  principio  erat  verbum,  evidently  a  part  of  his 
religious  ministrations  ;  or,  perhaps,  to  impress  his  hearer  with  his  knowledge 
of  Latin.  255.  ferthing  :  see  1.  134.  256.  purchas,  the  profits  of  his  beg- 
ging, rente,  income.  257.  And  .  .  .  whelpe,  "  And  he  could  romp  about 
exactly  as  if  he  were  a  puppy  dog."  (Skeat.)  258.  love-dayes  :  days 
appointed  for  settling  disputes  out  of  court  and  by  an  umpire  —  in  this  case 
the  friar.  260.  cope,  a  cloak  worn  by  priests.  262.  semi-cope,  a  short 
*  cope,'  or  cape.  263.  presse,  mould.  264.  lipsed,  for  his  wantownesse, 
lisped  in  affectation.     269.  cleped  :  cf.  1.  121. 

270-284.  The  Marchant.  271.  mottelee,  motley,  a  many-colored  suit. 
272.  Flaundrish,  Flemish.  273.  fetisly  :  cf.  1.  124.  274.  resons,  opinions. 
solempnely  :  see  '  solempne,'  1.  209.  275.  Souninge  .  .  .  winning,  always 
harping  on  his  increasing  profits.  276.  were  kept,  i.e.  were  guarded,  kept 
open,  for  any  thing,  at  any  cost.  277.  Middelburgh,  a  port  on  an  island 
in  the  Netherlands.     Orewelle,  the  former  name  of  an  English  port  exactly 


PROLOGUE  589 

opposite  Middleburg.  The  merchants'  ships  travelled  in  the  pirate-infested 
waters  between  these  two  ports.  278.  Wei  .  .  .  selle.  He  knew  how  to 
sell  to  advantage  in  various  money  markets  the  foreign  coins  {sheeld,  a  French 
coin)  which  he  had  accumulated  in  the  course  of  his  business.  279.  well 
his  wit  bisette,  used  his  wits  to  advantage.  280.  wiste  :  cf.  1.  224.  wight, 
person  :  cf.  1.  71.  281.  estatly,  discreet,  governaunce,  the  management  of 
his  business.  282.  chevisaunce,  arrangements  for  borrowing.  284.  noot, 
know  not. 

285-308.  285.  clerk.  This  clerk  (scholar)  of  Oxford  was  an  aspirant 
for  the  priesthood.  In  Chaucer's  time  the  word  clerk  meant  simply  scholar- 
Look  up  its  derivation  and  trace  its  history  to  its  present  meaning.  Oxen- 
ford.  The  form  of  the  word  suggests  its  possible  derivation.  For  another 
conjecture,  see  note  on  Lycidas,  1.  103.  286.  y-go,  gone.  288.  he,  the 
scholar.  I  undertake,  I  venture  to  say.  289.  ther-to  :  cf.  11.  48,  153. 
290.  overest  courtepy,  uppermost  short  cloak.  291.  benefice  :  see  Diet. 
under  the  definition  which  has  to  do  with  the  church.  292.  office.  A  secular 
calling,  such  as  offered  by  medicine  or  law,  was  often  taken  up  for  a  time  by 
the  clergy  of  the  Middle  Ages.  293.  For  him  was  lever  have,  he  would 
liefer  (more  gladly)  have.  296.  fithel  or  gay  sautrye,  fiddle  or  gay  psaltery. 
297.  al  be,  although  :  cf.  modern  albeit,  philosophre,  Chaucer  is  here 
making  a  play  on  the  word.  Other  than  the  meaning  as  already  applied  to 
the  clerk  is  the  meaning  alchemist —  one  who  has  "  found  the  philosophers' 
stone."  This  our  Oxford  scholar  was  not,  Chaucer  says,  for,  if  he  could  make 
gold,  1.  298  would  not  be  true.  299.  hente,  get.  302.  hem  :  cf.  1.  11. 
scoleye,  attend  school.  303.  cure,  thought  or  care  (from  Lat.  cura). 
304.  o,  one.  305.  in  forme  and  reverence,  in  precise  and  dignified  manner. 
306.  hy  sentence,  lofty  significance.     307.  Souninge  in,  tending  to:  cf.  1.  275. 

309-330.  The  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe.  309.  war,  wary,  wys  :  cf.  1.  68. 
310.  parvys,  a  church  porch,  probably  of  St.  Paul's,  where,  it  is  said,  lawyers 
used  to  meet  for  consultation.  312.  reverence,  dignity.  314.  Justyce  in 
assyse,  a  judge  sent  into  the  country  to  hold  court  (assizes).  315.  patente, 
letters  patent,  or  the  ofl&cial  document  of  the  king,  pleyn  commissioun 
(Lat.  plenus),  full  authority.  318.  purchasour,  conveyancer  (see  Diet.). 
no-wher  noon:  see  note  on  1.  70.  Observe  that '  noon '  does  not  mean  known. 
319.  fee  simple,  the  most  absolute  form  of  ownership  or  possession  of  landed 
property,  in  effect.  This  seems  to  mean  that  the  law  sergeant  could  so 
cleverly,  in  his  conveyancing,  remove,  or  seem  to  remove,  defects  in  title  and 
other  limitations  of  absolute  ownership,  that  the  deed,  as  he  would  hand  it 
over,  would  practically  seem  to  give  possession  in  'fee  simple';  and  finally 
(320)  that  the  conveyance  could  not  be  invalidated  ('infect').  321-322. 
No-wher  .  .  .  was.  Note  how  the  lawyer  delights  to  "  bustle  around  "  to 
indicate  how  busy  a  man  he  is.  323.  In  termes,  in  the  exact  words,  ver- 
batim, caas,  cases  ;  for  number,  see  note  on  1.  74.  domes,  decisions. 
324.  William,  the  Conqueror,  who  reigned  from  1066  to  1087.  325.  endyte  : 
cf.  1.  95.     make  a  thing,  i.e.  draw  up  a  legal  document.     326.  pinche  at,  i.e. 


590  NOTES  TO  CHAUCER  ' 

find  fault  with.  327.  coude  :  see  1.95.  328.  medlee  cote,  a  coat  of  mixed 
color.  329.  Girt  .  .  .  smale,  encircled  by  a  girdle  of  silk,  having  upon 
it  small  ornaments  or  bars. 

331-360.  TheFrankeleyn:  see  note  on  1.  216.  332.  dayes-ye  :  cf.  *ye,' 
1.  lo-  This  is  the  derivation  of  daisy.  333.  complexioun,  temperament, 
sangwyn,  ardent  or  hopeful.  Some  prefer  to  interpret  this  line  literally, 
making  '  sangwyn  '  mean  ruddy  (from  Lat.  sanguis,  blood).  334.  by  the 
morwe,  in  the  morning,  sop,  bread  or  cake  dipped  in  some  liquid.  335.  delyt, 
pleasure,  wone,  habit,  wont.  336-338.  Epicurus  .  .  .  parfyt.  He  was  a 
'  son '  (i.e.  true  disciple)  of  Epicurus,  a  Greek  philosopher  (342-270  B.C.),  who 
was.  of  the  opinion  that  pleasure  was  the  sutnmum  honum.  340.  Seint 
Julian,  the  patron  saint  of  hospitality.  341.  after  oon,  after  one  standard, 
i.e.  the  best.  342.  envyned,  stocked  with  wine,  no-wher  noon  :  see  note 
on  1.  318.  343.  bake  :  see  note  on  '  holpen,'  1.  18.  345.  It  snewed,  it 
abounded.  347-  After,  in  accordance  with.  348.  mete:  seel.  127.  soper 
(supper),  drink.  349.  mewe,  coop  in  which  fowls  were  fattened.  350. 
breem,  bream  (see  Diet.),  luce,  pike,  stewe,  a  small  pond  in  which  fish 
were  kept  to  supply  the  table.  351.  Wo  was,  as  we  now  say,  "  Woe  be 
to."  but-if,  unless,  sauce:  c/.  1.  129.  352.  Poynaunt,  pungent  or  biting, 
gere,  utensils.  353.  table  dormant.  Permanent  tables  on  legs  were  now 
supplanting  boards  laid  across  trestles,  which  had  been  previously  used. 
The  Frankeleyn  had  such  a  table  and  kept  it  set,  thus  showing  his  hospitable 
nature.  355.  sessiouns,  sittings  held  by  the  justices  of  the  peace,  lord  and 
sire,  the  presiding  officer.  356.  knight  of  the  shire,  representative  of  the 
county  C  shire  ')  in  parliament.  357.  anlas,  a  short,  two-edged  dagger. 
gipser,  a  pouch  or  purse.  359.  shirreve,  shire  reve,  chief  magistrate  of  the 
shire.  Cf.  word  sheriff,  countour,  an  auditor  of  accounts.  C/.  the  modern 
comptroller.     360.  vavasour,  a  sub-vassal,  next  in  dignity  to  a  baron. 

361-378.  These  hues,  which  have  been  omitted,  describe  the  following  : 
the  Haberdassher,  or  dealer  in  small  wares  ;  the  Carpenter  ;  the  Webbe, 
or  weaver  ;  the  Dyere  ;  the  Tapicer,  or  upholsterer.  These  are  all,  evi- 
dently, men  of  ability  and  standing  in  the  community,  as  well  as  leading 
members  of  the  various  trade  guilds  to  which  they  belong. 

379-387.  The  Cook.  379.  for  the  nones,  for  the  nonce,  i.e.  for  then 
once,  for  that  occasion.  380.  mary-bones,  marrow-bones.  381.  poudre- 
marchant  tart,  a  kind  of  tart  flavoring-powder,  galingale,  a  sort  of  spice- 
like root.  383.  coude  :  see  1.  95.  sethe,  boil.  384.  mortreux,  kmd  of 
stew  or  thick  soup.  385.  greet  harm,  a  pity.  386.  shine,  shin,  mormal 
(Fr.  mortmaly  Lat.  mortuum  malum,  dead  sore),  cancer.  387.  blank- 
manger,  a  kind  of  fricassee,  made  of  fish  or  fowl,  etc.,  with  a  white  sauce. 
For  suggestion  on  this  line,  see  note  on  1,  238. 

388-410.  The  Shipman.  388.  woning,  dwelling.  389.  woot,  know. 
Dertemouth,  Dartmouth,  an  important  port  in  Chaucer's  time,  in  Devon- 
shire. 390.  rouncy,  farm  horse,  as  he  couthe,  as  best  he  could.  Being 
8-  sailor  he  knew  little  of  horses.    391.  f aiding,  a  coarse  cloth.    392.  laas, 


PROLOGUE  591 

face  or  cord.  394.  bote  somer  :  perhaps  any  *  hot  summer  '  ;  or,  as  some 
think,  the  especially  hot  seasons  of  135 1  or  1370.  395-  good  felawe,  as  we 
say  "  jolly  good  fellow."  396.  draughte,  cask,  y-drawe,  drawn,  i.e.  stolen. 
397.  From  Burdeux-ward,  from-ward,  i.e.  from  the  direction  of  :  cf.  to-ward, 
originally  also  thus  separated,  whyl  that :  cf.  *  whan  than,'  1.  i.  chapman, 
pedler.  sleep,  a  form  of  the  past  tense  ;  also  shpte.  398.  Of  nyce  .  .  . 
keep,  he  was  not  troubled  with  conscientious  scruples.  399.  hyer  bond, 
as  we  say,  "  upper  hand."  400.  By  water  .  .  .  lond,  threw  them  overboard 
to  get  home  as  best  they  might,  as  he  would  express  it  ;  really,  to  drown. 
401.  craft,  skill.  402.  bisydes,  beside,  or  all  around  him.  403.  herberwe, 
harbor,  lodemenage,  art  of  pilotage  :  cf.  lode  star.  404.  Hulle,  Hull  in 
Yorkshire,  England.  Cartage,  Carthage.  405.  wys  :  see  1.  68.  to  under- 
take, in  his  undertakings.  408.  Gootlond,  Gotland,  an  island  in  the  Baltic. 
Finistere,  Finisterre,  a  cape  in  western  Spain.  409.  cryke,  a  creek  having 
a  harbor.  Britayne,  Brittany.  410.  y-cleped  :  see  note  on  V Allegro  (12). 
Maudelayne.  It  is  interesting  to  know  that  there  is  still  preserved  in  the 
Custom-house  records  of  Dartmouth  for  1386  an  entry  of  a  ship  of  this 
name.  This  may  throw  some  light  on  the  date  at  which  the  Prologue  was 
composed. 

411-444.  The  Doctour.  411.  Pbisyk  (413,  *phisik'),  physic,  medicine 
in  general.  414.  astronomye,  astrology.  In  the  Middle  Ages  the  position 
of  sun,  moon,  and  planets,  in  relation  to  one  another,  was  thought  to  have  an 
important  bearing  on  proper  medical  treatment.  As  these  astronomical  con- 
ditions changed  from  hour  to  hour,  so  must  the  treatment  change  with  them. 
415-416.  He  kepte  .  .  .  magik  nature!.  By  his  knowledge  of  '  natural 
magic,'  or  the  phenomena  of  nature,  he  kept  the  treatment  of  his  patient 
from  hour  to  hour  in  conformity  with  the  conditions  mentioned  above. 
417-418.  wel  .  .  .  pacient.  He  could,  moreover,  make  waxen  images  and 
treat  them  instead  of  his  patient.  If  the  patient  did  not  recover  when  the 
images  were  treated,  it  merely  proved  that  they  had  not  been  made  at  the 
right  time.  Hence  the  doctor's  art  largely  consisted  in  his  ability  to  predict 
or  choose  (*  fortunen  ')  the  right  ('  ascendent ')  moment,  according  to 
astrology,  for  treating  the  images.  420.  hoot,  cold,  moiste,  drye.  These 
were,  according  to  medieval  theories,  the  four  humors,  the  proper  propor- 
tions of  which  were  essential  to  the  health  of  the  human  body.  Disease 
(*  maladye  ')  lay  in  an  excess  or  defect  of  some  one  of  these  humors,  and  was 
treated  accordingly.  421.  engendred  :  c/.  1.  4.  423.  cause  and  rote  (root) 
are  nominative  absolutes  before  the  participle  '  y-knowe  ' :  cf.  ablative  abso- 
lute in  Latin.  424.  bote,  remedy.  426.  letuaries,  electuaries  or  syrups, 
as  distinguished  from  drogges  (drugs),  powders,  or  dry  medicines.  427- 
428.  For  ecb  .  .  .  biginne.  Each  had  long  been  serviceable  to  the  other. 
The  druggist  recommends  the  physician  ;  the  physician  makes  his  patients 
patronize  the  druggist.  429.  Esculapius,  god  of  medicine,  son  of  Apollo  : 
see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  38,  104.  430-434.  Deiscorides  .  .  .  Gilbertyn. 
These  are  the  authors  of  Greek,  Arabian,  Moorish,  and  English  text-books  on 


592  NOTES  TO  CHAUCER 

medicine  used  by  physicians  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Dioscorides,  Rufus,  and 
Galen  were  Greeks,  about  the  second  century  ;  Hippocrates  ('  Ypocras ')  was 
a  Greek  of  the  fifth  century,  Haly,  Serapion,  Rhasis,  Avicenna,  Averroes, 
and  Damascenus  were  Arabian  physicians,  living  from  the  ninth  to  the 
twelfth  century.  Constantine  was  a  Moor  of  the  eleventh  century.  Bernard 
was  a  Frenchman  of  Chaucer's  time.  Gilbertine  and  Gatesden  were  English- 
men of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries,  respectively.  439.  sangwin 
and  pers,  red  and  sky-blue.  440.  taffata  and  sendal,  thin  silks.  441.  esy  of 
dispence,  economical.  442.  pestilence.  Skeat  gives  as  dates  of  pestilence 
in  England  1348,  1349,  1362,  1369,  and  1376.  The  doctor  had  made  money 
in  these  pestilences,  and  purposed  to  keep  it.  His  outlay  was  only  for  the 
rich  dress  that  his  position  demanded  of  him.  443-444.  For  .  .  .  special. 
One  of  the  most  witty  touches  of  th^  poem.  Gold  in  some  liquid  form  was 
considered  a  valuable  medicine.  Hence,  with  scientific  enthusiasm(?),  this 
doctor  was  collecting  gold.  Pronounce  '  cordial '  and  *  special '  as  trisyllables. 
445-476.  The  Good  Wyf  of  Bathe.  445.  Good  wyf,  the  mistress  of  a 
household  —  a  woman  of  independent  fortune,  of  bisyde,  from  the  vicinity 
of.  446.  som-del,  somewhat,  some  deal  :  cf.  the  expression,  a  great  deal, 
scathe,  too  bad.  447.  haunt,  skill.  448.  Ypres  and  Gaunt.  Ypres  and 
Ghent,  cities  of  Flanders,  were  noted  for  their  cloth  manufactories.  450. 
offring.  Gifts  of  alms  or  offerings  were  taken  up  by  the  giver  and  laid  upon 
the  altar.  In  taking  these  forward,  worshippers  were  expected  to  observe  the 
proper  order  of  precedence.  The  Wife  of  Bath,  because  of  her  position, 
was  usually  given  first  place,  and  was  very  angry  at  any  one  who  might  pre- 
sume to  go  before  her.  453.  coverchiefs,  kerchiefs,  or  coverings  for  the 
head.  (Fr.  chef,  from  Lat.  caput.)  ground,  texture.  454.  ten  pound. 
The  ornaments  upon  these  kerchiefs  made  them  heavy.  The  words  '  I  dorste 
swere '  show  that  Chaucer  is  playfully  exaggerating  the  weight.  457.  streite, 
tightly,  moiste,  supple.  459.  worthy.  This  word  as  used  by  Chaucer 
suggests  both  respectability  and  wealth  :  c/.  1.  217.  460.  chirche-dore.  In 
the  Middle  Ages  the  church  porch  was  often  the  place  of  the  marriage  cere- 
mony. 461.  Withouten  other  company e,  besides  other  suitors.  462.  as 
nouthe  (now  then),  at  present.  The  parenthetical  expression  is  suggestive 
of  Kipling's  "But  that's  another  story."  463.  thryes,  thrice.  465.  Boloigne, 
Boulogne,  to  see  an  image  of  the  Virgin,  often  visited  by  pilgrims.  466, 
Galice  at  seint  Jame,  Galicia,  in  northwestern  Spain,  where  there  was  a 
famous  shrine  of  St.  James.  Coloigne,  Cologne,  the  reputed  burial-place  of 
the  three  Wise  Men  of  the  East.  467.  coude,  knew  :  cf.  use  in  1.  95.  468. 
Gat-tothed,  having  the  teeth  far  apart.  The  origin  of '  gat '  is  uncertain,  gap, 
gate,  and  goat  having  all  been  suggested  by,  different  editors,  soothly  for  to 
seye,  to  tell  the  truth.  Note  the  poet's  pity  for  her  misfortune,  and  cf.  1.  446. 
469.  amblere  :  ambler,  an  easy-going  horse.  470.  Y- wimpled  :  see  1.  151. 
471.  bokeler  :  see  1.  112.  targe  :  see  Diet.  472.  foot-mantel.  This 
seems  to  be  a  riding  skirt  of  some  kind,  reaching  to  the  feet.  474.  carpe, 
talk  or  chat ;  not  in  the  present  sense  of  finding  fault.     475.  Of  remedyes, 


PROLOGUE  593 

modifies  '  carpe.'    The  relative  which  is  understood  after  *  remedyes.'    476/ 
coude  .  .  .  daunce,  knew  the  old  game  :   see  11.  460-461. 

477-528.  The  poure  Persoun.  One  of  the  finest  characters  in  English 
poetry  :  cf.  the  parson  in  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village  (137-192).  478. 
Persoun  of  a  toun,  country  parson  or  parish  priest.  480.  clerk  :  see  1.  285. 
481.  wolde,  desired  to.  482.  parisshens,  parishioners.  485.  y-preved, 
proved,  ofte  sythes,  ofttimes.  486.  Full  looth  .  .  .  tythes.  He  was 
very  loth  to  excommunicate  ('  cursen  ')  anybody  for  not  paying  hiS  tithes. 
For  '  tithes,'  see  Did.  487.  yeven  :  cf.  1.  234.  out  of  doute,  without 
doubt  :  cf.  Merchant  of  Venice,  I,  i  (21).  489.  off  ring,  the  contributions  he 
had  received:  cf.  1. 450.  substaunce,  his  income  from  his  benefice.  490.  han 
suffisaunce,  have  sufiicient,  or  all  he  desired.  492.  lafte  nat,  neglected  not, 
for,  on  account  of.  493.  meschief,  misfortune.  494.  ferreste,  farthest. 
muche  and  lyte,  great  and  small.  497.  wroghte  and  taughte.  He 
"  practised  what  he  preached."  498.  gospel  :  see  Matthew  v.  19.  tho, 
those.  499.  figure  (accented  on  last  syllable),  figure  of  speech.  What  fig- 
ure is  it?  Explain  it.  ther-to  :  see  1.  48.  502.  lewed,  ignorant,  unedu- 
cated ;  hence  layman,  since  learning  was  largely  confined  to  the  clergy.  503. 
take  keep,  take  heed,  i.e.  stop  to  think  about  it.  504.  dirty,  the  reading 
of  Skeat's  text.  507-511.  He  .  .  .  withholde.  It  was  a  custom  among 
many  country  priests  to  sublet  their  benefices  at  a  profit  to  themselves  ;  and 
then  either  to  attach  themselves  to  some  religious  brotherhood  by  which  they 
might  be  supported  and  kept  away  from  their  duties  ('  withholde  '),  or  to  get 
a  lucrative  "  job  "  in  some  London  church  (such  as  St.  Paul's)  at  singing 
masses  for  the  founders  of  the  chantries.  508,  509.  And  leet  (left).  And  ran. 
Supply  '  nat '  (not)  with  each  verb.  510.  chaunterye,  chantry  : .  see  Diet. 
513.  wolf.  Explain  the  figure.  516.  despitous,  oversevere,  contemptuous, 
despiteful.  517.  daungerous,  reserved,  cold.  digne,  haughty,  repel- 
lent. 518.  discreet  and  benigne,  tactful  and  kind.  519.  fairnesse,  his 
own  righteous  (fair)  life.  521.  But,  unless.  523.  snibben  (snub),  rebuke, 
reprove,  for  the  nones,  for  the  nonce,  as  the  occasion  demanded.  See  note 
on  1.  379.  524.  trowe,  trow  :  see  Diet.  525.  wayted  after,  expected, 
looked  for  {i.e.  from  other  people).  526.  Ne  .  .  .  conscience,  he  did  not 
set  up  for  himself  a  fussy  (or  specious?)  conscience,  i.e.  did  not  wrap  himself 
up  in  a  cloak  of  sanctity. 

529-541.  The  Plowman.  529.  Plowman,  a  poor  farmer.  No  one 
who  reads  the  description  of  this  humble  but  pure-souled  man  and  of  his 
brother,  *  the  poure  Persoun,'  can  for  a  moment  believe  that  Chaucer  was 
irreligious  or  a  scoffer  at  religion.  It  is  the  personal  selfishness  and  self- 
indulgence  of  the  monk,  the  friar,  the  summoner,  and  the  pardoner  which  he 
is  satirizing,  rather  than  the  rehgion  of  which  they  were  unworthy  repre- 
sentatives, {who)  was  his  brother.  This  relationship  is  interesting  as 
showing  the  frequently  humble  origin  of  the  secular  priesthood  of  Chaucer's 
time.  530.  That  hadde  .  .  .  fother,  who  had  drawn  (*  y-lad  ')  many  a 
cart-load  ('  fother  ')  of  manure.     531.  swinker,  laborer  :  see  *  swinken,'  1. 

2Q 


594  NOTES  TO  CHAUCER 

i86.  534.  thogh  him  gamed  or  smerte.  Some  take  this  to  mean  simply 
"  in  joy  or  woe  ";  others,  "  though  his  piety  advanced  or  retarded  his 
worldly  interests."  Which  seems  the  more  plausible  interpretation? 
533-535.  God  loved  .  .  .  him-selve  :  see  Mark  xii.  33.  536.  ther-to  : 
see  1.  48.  dyke,  make  ditches,  delve  :  see  Diet.  537.  wight  :  see  Diet. 
539.  tythes  :  cf.  1.  486.  540.  swink  :  ef.  1.  188.  catel,  property  :  ef.  the 
modern  chattels  and  cattle  (which  in  early  ages  formed  a  large  part  of  a 
man's  property).  541.  tabard  :  see  1.  20,  mere.  To  ride  upon  a  mare 
was  not  considered  dignified,  at  least  for  people  of  fashion.  For  the  incom- 
plete couplet,  see  note  on  1.  207. 

542-544.  In  these  lines  the  poet  sums  up  the  remaining  characters.  542. 
Reve.  The  reve  (A.-S.  gerefa,  an  officer)  was  a  kind  of  private  bailiff  or 
steward  of  some  nobleman,  and  overseer  of  his  estate.  Millere.  The  miller 
was  a  characteristic  figure  of  the  day,  when  each  man  took  his  own  grain  to 
the  mill  to  be  ground  into  the  flour  needed  in  the  household.  He  is  a  sort 
of  comic  character  in  early  literature  —  a  typical  rascal.  543.  Somnour. 
A  summoner,  or  apparitor,  was  the  messenger  or  officer  who  served  the  legal 
papers  summoning  delinquents  to  appear  before  the  ecclesiastical  courts. 
Pardoner,  a  seller  of  indulgences,  or  "  absolution  from  the  censure  and  public 
penance  of  the  church  "  (Webster's  Diet.).  544.  Maunciple.  The  steward 
or  caterer  on  whom  devolves  the  task  of  purchasing  provisions  for  a  college, 
an  inn  of  court,  etc.:   see  Inns  of  Court  in  Diet,    na-mo  :   cf.  11.  98,  loi. 

545-566.  The  Miller  :  see  note  on  1.  542.  545.  carl,  fellow  :  see  churl 
in  Diet,  for  the  nones  :  see  11.  379  and  523.  The  phrase  seems  here  a  mere 
expletive,  with  no  particular  meaning  ;  such  a  phrase  as  "  for  this  gear  " 
found  frequently  in  Shakespeare.  547.  proved wel,  was  easily  proved  true. 
over-al  :  seel.  216.  548.  ram,  a  common  prize  in  wrestling  matches.  549. 
a  thikke  knarre,  a  thick-set  fellow.  550.  nolde  (ne-wolde),  not  be  willing 
to.  of,  off.  harre,  (its)  hinges.  551.  atarenning.  This  feat  seems  rather 
incredible,  considering  that  the  doors  of  that  time  were  decidedly  substantial 
affairs.  554.  cop  right,  very  top.  557.  nose-thirles  (nose-drills),  nostrils. 
558.  bokeler  :  cf.l.  112.  559.  forneys,  furnace.  560,  jangler,  a  babbler 
or  idle  talker,  goliardeys,  a  buffoon,  a  teller  of  low  stories.  561.  that, 
the  subject  of  his  babbling,  harlotryes,  coarse  or  ribald  jests.  562.  toUen 
thryes.  When  the  miller  received  the  grain  for  grinding  he  was  accustomed 
to  take  four  or  five  per  cent  of  it  as  a  toll.  This  miller  would  steal  part  of  it, 
besides  taking  three  times  his  proper  toll.  Remember  that  corn  in  England 
is  a  generic  name  for  wheat,  barley,  rye,  etc.  563.  thombe  of  gold.  Two 
explanations  have  been  suggested  :  (i)  that  his  thumb,  as  it  rubbed  the  meal 
against  his  finger,  was  so  sensitive  that  he  could  detect  its  quality  by  touch  ; 
and  (2)  that  the  term  is  a  joke  based  on  the  old  proverb,  —  "Every honest 
miller  has  a  golden  thumb."  pardee,  originally  on  oath  (Fr.  par  dieu) ; 
but  later,  simply  indeed,  truly.  566.  And  .  .  .  towne.  Thus  the  miller 
and  his  bagpipe  conducted  this  odd  cavalcade  out  of  London.  The  bagpipe 
is  not,  as  many  think,  a  native  Scottish  instrument. 


I 


PROLOGUE  595 

567-586.  These  lines,  which  are  omitted  from  this  volume,  describe 
the  Maunciple  :   see  note  on  1,  544. 

587-622.  The  Reve  :  see  note  on  1.  542.  587.  colerik,  choleric  or 
irascible.  590.  His  top  .  .  .  biforn,  The  top  of  his  head  was  docked  in 
front  C  biforn  ')  after  the  fashion  of  a  priest's  tonsure.  592.  Y-lyk,  like, 
y-sene,  to  be  seen,  visible.  593.  coude  :  see  1.  95.  gerner,  garner  or 
granary.  594.  auditour,  auditor  :  see  Diet,  on  him  winne,  get  the  bet- 
ter of  him,  i.e.  by  proving  his  accounts  to  be  incorrect.  597.  neet, 
cattle  :  cf.  "  neat's  tongue,"  Merchant  of  Venice,  I,  i  ;  and  "  neat's  leather," 
Julius  Caesar,  I,  i.  dayerye,  dairy.  598.  hors  :  see  note  on  1.  74.  stoor, 
farm  stock.  600.  And  .  .  .  rekening.  According  to  contract  he  had  been 
handing  in  his  accounts.  602.  Ther  .  .  .  arrerage.  No  one  could  show 
that  he  had  embezzled  any  of  his  lord's  money  :  cf.  1.  594.  By  twice  sug- 
gesting this  fact,  and  hinting  at  the  extent  of  the  reeve's  private  fortune 
(1.  609),  the  poet  indicates  his  suspicions.  603.  baillif,  perhaps  an  under- 
steward.  herde,  herdsman,  hyne,  hind,  farm  laborer.  604.  sleighte, 
trickery,  covyne,  deceit.  605.  adrad,  afraid,  the  deeth,  probably  the 
pestilence  :  see  note  on  1.  442.  606.  woning,  dwelling.  609.  astored 
prively,  secretly  stored  or  furnished  with  wealth.  610-61 1.  His  lord  .  .  . 
good.  He  could  craftily  please  his  lord  by  giving  or  lending  ('  lene  ')  him 
of  his  own  (the  lord's)  property  which  he  (the  reeve)  had  previously  pur- 
loined. 612.  thank,  cote,  hood,  in  return  for  this  supposed  favor.  613. 
mister,  trade.  614.  wrighte,  workman.  615.  stot,  stallion.  616.  pomely, 
dappled,  highte,  was  called.  617.  surcote,  overcoat,  pers  :  see  1.  439. 
619.  Northfolk,  Norfolk,  which  :  which  and  who  were  used  interchange- 
ably until  after  Shakespeare.  620.  Bisyde  :  see  1.  445.  621.  Tukked 
.  .  .  aboute  :  with  a  cord  or  girdle  around  his  loose  coat,  like  a  friar.  622. 
And  ever  .  .  .  route.  Was  this  owing  to  his  slow  horse,  or  on  account  of 
unsociability? 

622-668.  'The  Somnour  :  see  note  on  1.  543.  624.  cherubinnes  face, 
cherubs  being  represented  as  fat,  round,  and  rosy.  625.  sawcefleem,  red 
and  pimpled,  narwe,  narrow.  626.  And  quyk  .  .  .  sparwe,  the  reading 
of  Morris's  text.  627.  scalled  browes  :  scabby,  or  scurvy  black  brows. 
piled  berd,  thin  and  straggling  beard.  629.  litarge,  litharge  or  lead  mon- 
oxide. 630.  Boras,  borax,  ceruce  :  ceruse,  a  cosmetic  containing  white 
lead,  oille  of  tartre,  cream  of  tartar.  632.  whelkes,  pimples  or  blotches. 
633.  knobbes,  large  pimples.  636.  wood  :  cf.  1.  184.  639.  termes, 
terms  or  Latin  phrases,  probably  learned  out  of  the  legal  papers  which 
he  served  as  summoner.  643.  Can  clepen  "  Watte,"  can  call  out  Walter 
(as  a  parrot  of  to-day  would  cry  "  Poll  ").  644.  grope,  test  him  in  any 
other  point.  645.  philosophye,  learning.  646.  "  Questio  quid  iuris,"  The 
question  (is)  what  (is  the)  law?  This  is  one  of  the  *  termes,'  1.  639.  647. 
gentil  harlot,  good-natured  rascal,  kinde,  genial.  650.  good  felawe,  a 
boon  companion,  wikked  syn.  The  reading  is  from  Morris's  text. 
651.  atte  fulle,  entirely.     652.  pulle.    Secretly  he  could  pluck  a  finch,  an 


596  NOTES  TO  CHAUCER 

early  English  expression,  meaning  he  could  "  cheat  a  greenhorn."  653. 
o-wher,  anywhere.  655.  erchedeknes  curs,  excommunication  from  the 
Archdeacon  :  cf.  '  cursen,'  1.  486.  656.  But-if  :  see  1.  351.  657.  For  .  .  . 
be.  The  Somnour,  who,  from  his  official  position,  pretends  to  know  all 
about  such  things,  drops  a  hint  to  his  friend  that  the  threat  of  excom- 
munication and  the  '  helle  '  to  which  it  consigns  one  is  simply  a  means  of 
extorting  money.  659-662.  But  .  .  .  significavit.  Chaucer  is  undoubt- 
edly sincere  in  his  denunciation  of  this  teaching  of  the  Somnour.  Every 
guilty  man,  he  says,  should  dread  for  himself  ('  him  ')  excommunication, 
and  the  writ  of  excommunication  (beginning  ^'Significavit  nobis  venerabilis 
pater,''  etc.),  for  this  ('  curs  ')  is  just  as  surely  death  to  the  soul  as  absolution 
C  assoilling  ')  is  its  salvation  :  see  note  on  1.  529.  662.  war  him,  let  him 
beware  of.  663.  In  daunger,  in  his  control  or  authority,  at  his  owene 
gyse,  after  his  own  fashion.  664.  yonge  girles,  young  people  of  either 
sex  (a  meaning  now  obsolete).     665.   hit :  see  note  on  1.  11.     reed,  adviser. 

666.  gerland.  Skeat  thinks  this  garland  to  be  not  an  ivy  wreath,  as  it  is 
generally  explained,  but  a  large  hoop  decorated  with  ribbons  and  roses. 

667.  ale  stake,  also  according  to  Skeat,  is  a  stake  projecting  horizontally 
from  the  side  of  an  inn,  and  is  intended  as  a  place  on  which  the  garland  shall 
be  hung.  668.  A  bokeler  .  .  .  cake.  Observe  how  much  suggestion,  as  to 
the  character  of  the  Somnour,  Chaucer  gets  into  this  one  line.  Also  notice 
the  absence  of  regular  order  of  description  here  and  elsewhere  :  see  note  on 
1.  238. 

669-714.  The  Pardoner  :  see  note  on  1.  543.  670.  Rouncival,  the 
Hospital  of  the  Blessed  Mary  of  Rounc3rvalle  in  London.  672.  Com  hider, 
love,  to  me.  Evidently  a  popular  song  of  the  day,  but  rather  oddly  chosen 
for  a  churchman.  Observe  how  '  Rome  '  must  have  been  pronounced  to 
allow  it  to  rhyme  with  '  to'me.'  673.  stif  burdoun,  a  deep  bass  accompani- 
ment. 676.  stryke  of  flex,  hank  of  flax.  677.  ounces,  strands.  679. 
colpons  (cf.  coupons).,  shreds,  oon  and  oon,  one  by  one."  681.  trussed, 
packed.  682.  Him  thoughte  :  cf.  methought,  and  see  note  on  1.  37.  jet, 
fashion,  style.  683.  Dischevelee.  We  can  picture  the  thin,  straight,  wax- 
colored  hair  blowing  in  every  direction.  685.  vernicle  :  a  small  copy  of  the 
vernicle,  or  St.  Veronica's  handkerchief,  preserved  at  St.  Peter's.  The 
pardoner  had  doubtless  secured  this  token  on  his  recent  visit  to  Rome  :  see 
Veronica  in  Diet.  687.  Bret-ful,  brimful.  691.  his  .  .  .  bare.  This 
reading  is  from  Skeat's  text.  692.  of  his  craft  :  cf.  1.  401.  Berwik  into 
Ware,  Berwick  in  the  extreme  north  of  England  to  Ware  in  the  south,  i.e.  all 
England  :  cf.  the  expression  "  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific."  694.  male, 
bag  or  'wallet'  (11.  681  and  686).  pilwe-beer,  pillowcase.  695.  lady,  the 
Virgin  Mary.  For  form  of  possessive,  see  note  on  1.  88.  696.  gobet,  a 
small  fragment.  698.  hente,  took,  enUsted  as  a  disciple  :  cf.  1.  299.  699. 
croys  of  latoun,  cross  of  latten,  a  kind  of  brass  much  used  in  making  church 
utensils,  ful  of  stones,  set  with  precious  stones,  though  probably  imitations. 
700.   pigges  bones,  which  he  evidently  was  exhibiting  as  those  of  some  saint. 


I 


SPENSER'S  FAERIE  QUEEN E  597 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Chaucer  wished  to  portray  this  pardoner  as  a  cheat 
and  impostor.  This,  however,  does  not  justify  critics  in  assuming  that 
Chaucer  was  in  any  sense  contemptuous  of  the  Church  or  its  worthy  repre- 
sentatives. 702.  person,  same  as  '  persoun,'  1.  478.  up-on  lond,  in  the 
country.  703.  Up-on  a  day,  in  one  day.  704.  tweye,  two.  705.  japes, 
tricks.  706.  He  .  .  .  apes.  He  made  dupes  of  both  parson  and  people. 
708.  ecclesiaste  :  see  the  noun  ecclesiastic  in  Diet.  709.  rede,  interpret  or 
explain.  710.  alderbest,  best  of  all.  712.  moste,  had  to,  must,  affyle 
his  tonge,  pohsh  up  his  language.     713.   coude  :  see  1.  95. 

715-724.  716.  Thestat,  the  estate  :  cf.  '  of  what  degree,'  1.  40. 
tharray,  the  array  :  cf.  1.  41.  the  nombre  :  see  note  on  11.  163-164. 
719.  highte  :  see  1.  616.  Belle,  evidently  another  inn  in  Southwark. 
721.  baren,  bore  or  conducted,  us  :  the  personal  pronoun  used  for  the 
reflexive,     like  :  cf.  1.  175.     723.   viage  :  cf.  1.  77. 

725-858.  In  the  remaining  lines  of  the  Prologue  Chaucer,  after  justify- 
ing any  possible  coarseness  or  defects  in  his  poem,  explains  its  plan.  The 
host  of  the  Tabard  Inn  proposes  that  the  pilgrims  beguile  their  journey  by 
telling  stories,  each  of  them  narrating  two  on  the  way  to  Canterbury  and  two 
more  on  the  way  back.  The  travellers  gladly  agree.  Next  morning,  as 
they  go  on  their  way,  it  falls  to  the  Knight's  lot  to  tell  the  first  tale.  If  we 
count  the  characters  in  the  Prologue  as  thirty-one,  this  plan  would  call  for 
one  hundred  and  twenty-four  stories.  But  the  actual  number  is  twenty-four, 
and  of  these  two  are  interrupted  and  two  are  unfinished  (see  //  PenserosOf 
11.  109-115,  and  notes). 

It  may  interest  the  student  to  know  which  characters  actually  took  part 
in  this  story-telling.  The  order  given  by  the  Ellesmere  manuscript,  from 
which  our  text  is  taken,  is  as  follows  :  (i)  Knight ;  (2)  Miller  ;  (3)  Reeve  ; 
(4)  Cook  (only  begun);  (5)  Man  of  Law  ;  (6)  Wife  of  Bath  ;  (7)  Friar  ;  (8) 
Sunmioner ;  (9)  Clerk;  (10)  Merchant;  (11)  Squire  (only  half  told); 
(12)  Franklin;  (13)  Doctor  ;  (14)  Pardoner  ;  (i5)Shipman;  (16)  Prioress ; 
(17)  The  Poet ;  (18)  The  Poet  in  his  Second  Tale  ;  (19)  Monk  ;  (20)  Nun's 
Priest ;  (21)  Second  Nun  ;  (22)  Canon's  Yeoman  (a  new  character  who 
had  joined  the  party  on  the  fourth  day);  (23)  Manciple  ;  (24)  Parson. 

SPENSER 

FAERIE   QUEENE 

Gloriana,  queen  of  Fairyland,  while  holding  at  her  court  a  solemn  festival 
lasting  twelve  days,  sends  out  each  day  a  noble  knight  to  do  battle  against 
some  impersonation  of  vice  or  error.  This  is,  in  general,  the  plan  of  Spenser's 
Faerie  Queene.  The  day's  adventures  of  each  knight  occupy  in  turn  a  book 
of  the  poem.  Each  of  the  twelve  champions  is  supposed  to  be  a  representa- 
tive or  embodiment  of  some  one  of  the  twelve  virtues,  and  Prince  Arthur 
(not  yet  made  king),  who  is  to  marry  Gloriana  at  the  end  of  the  poem,  com- 


598  NOTES  TO  SPENSER 

bines  the  virtues  in  their  highest  degree.  The  poem  is  hence  an  allegory, 
picturing  the  human  soul  in  its  struggle  toward  perfection.  It  is  linked  with 
the  age  in  which  its  author  lived,  partly  by  symbolizing  actual  contemporary 
religious  and  political  struggles,  and  partly,  as  some  think,  by  portraying 
actual  men  and  women  of  the  time  under  the  guise  of  the  knights  and  ladies 
of  the  story.  Thus,  Gloriana  is  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  Prince  Arthur  may  be 
Leicester  or  Sidney  ;  the  Red  Cross  Knight,  possibly  Raleigh  ;  Duessa, 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

The  student  who  is  interested  in  the  poem  is  advised  to  proceed  with 
Kitchin's  edition  of  the  First  Book  (Clarendon  Press,  Oxford),  and  then  to 
buy  a  complete  edition,  such  as  the  Globe  (Macmillan).  Only  six  books 
of  the  Faerie  Queene  were  published  :  the  first  three,  the  legends  of  Holiness, 
Temperance,  and  Chastity,  in  1590  ;  the  last  three,  of  Friendship,  Justice, 
and  Courtesy,  six  years  later.  Portions  of  a  seventh  book,  on  Constancy, 
were  brought  to  light  after  the  poet's  death. 

The  metrical  system  of  the  Faerie  Queene  has  been  referred  to  in  the 
Introduction,  §§  19 ;  24,  $.  It  was  invented  by  Spenser,  and  has  accord- 
ingly been  called  the  Spenserian  stanza.  The  stanza  consists  of  nine  lines, 
eight  of  them  being  5  xa  or  iambic  pentameter,  and  the  ninth  6  xa,  or 
iambic  hexameter.  The  eight  lines  in  heroic  {i.e.  epic,  or  5  xa)  measure  are 
made  up  of  two  quatrains  of  alternate  rhyme,  tied  together  by  rhyming  the 
last  line  of  the  first  quatrain  with  the  first  line  of  the  second.  To  this  eight- 
line  stanza,  which  had  been  used  by  Chaucer  in  his  Monk's  tale,  Spenser 
added  an  iambic  hexameter  line  (an  Alexandrine  —  an  old  French  verse- 
form)  rhyming  with  the  preceding  line,  and  thus  created  a  stanza  whose 
effect  is  unique  in  poetry,  and  which  has  been  used  by  many  subsequent 
poets,  —  among  others  Thomson,  Burns,  Scott,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats. 
The  rhyme  and  metre  system  of  this  stanza  may  be  briefly  symbolized  as 
follows  :  rhyme,  a-b-a-b-b-c-b-c-c  ;  metre,  8  (5  xa)  +  i  (6  xa).  On  Epic  and 
Allegory,  see  Introduction,  §  31,  i,  6.      - 

1-34.  From  the  introductory  stanzas  of  Book  II.  The  poet,  addressing 
Queen  Elizabeth,  "  most  mighty  sovereign,"  intimates  that,  though  some 
may  see  in  his  poem  nothing  but  idle  fancies,  his  land  of  faery  is  after  all 
only  a  symbol  of  the  far  greater  wonders  that  must  He  beyond  the  bounds  of 
man's  knowledge.  "  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy."  i.  wote,  know;  cf.  Prologue 
(389).  Wote  is  a  form  of  the  verb  wit,  the  history  of  which  is  extremely 
interesting  (see  Diet.) ;  study  the  related  words  :  wise,  witch,  wicked,  witness, 
wizard,  vision,  visit,  idea,  idol,  kaleidoscope.  4,  painted:  force  of  this 
word  ?  s.  just,  strictly  accurate.  6.  Sith,  since.  9.  vouch,  bring  to  wit- 
ness.   10.   advise,  reflect.    22.   witless  :  c/.  note  on  1.  i.    misween,  distrust. 

36-43.  Stanza  xxiv,  Book  I,  Canto  I.  To  this  hermitage  Archimago 
(=  hypocrisy)  beguiles  the  hero,  the  Redcross  Knight  (=  holiness).  38. 
wide,  apart.  39.  edified,  built,  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  Latin  aedificahis  ; 
cj.  edifice,  edification  (see  Diet.).     43.   Alway,  always. 


ELIZABETHAN   LYRISTS  599 

*^' 

44-62.  Stanza  xli,  Book  I,  Canto  I.  46.  loft,  roof.  47.  sowne, 
sound.     51.   careless,  without  cares. 

53-61.  Stanza  xxxiii.  Book  I,  Canto  IX.  53.  wight,  person;  cf. 
Prologue  (71).     55.   ypight,  pitched,  set.     See  note  on  Prologite  (8). 

62-75.  Stanzas  xiii,  xiv,  Book  I,  Canto  III.  Una  (=  truth),  ac- 
companied by  a  Lion  ( =  man  guided  by  reason  alone,  lacking  divine  reve- 
lation; reason,  is  able  to  recognize  truth,  and  therefore  the  Lion  is  Una's 
attendant),  in  her  wanderings  comes  across  Abessa  (superstition,  or,  per- 
haps, secret  sin).  Abessa  flees  from  Una,  and  the  Lion,  i.e.  from  truth  and 
reason,  to  the  hut  of  her  mother,  Corceca  (blind  devotion).  Una,  tired, 
desires  entertainment,  which  is  not  offered.  62.  Page,  the  Lion.  64.  of, 
on  account  of.  65.  faint  astonishment,  astonishment  causing  faintness 
(transferred  epithet) .  69.  Paternosters:  the  first  two  words  of  the  Lord's 
prayer  in  Latin  are  Pater  nosier.  70.  Aves,  prayers  or  devotions  to  the 
Virgin,  beginning  with  Ave  Maria  (Hail  Mary) ;  cf.  Luke  i.  28. 

ELIZABETHAN    LYRISTS 

"The  Elizabethan  lyric  first  presented  itself  to  the  public  in  the  popular 
collections  called  Miscellanies.  The  first  printed  collection  of  this  kind, 
Totters  Miscellany,  1557,  is  usually  reckoned  the  starting-point  of  the  great 
lyric  era.  But  both  the  themes  of  the  songs  and  the  mode  of  publishing 
had  their  roots  deep-set  in  the  earlier  literature.  The  habit  of  making 
manuscript  collections  of  favorite  songs  for  convenience  in  singing  was  very 
common  during  the  early  part  of  the  Tudor  period,  and  perhaps  earlier" 
(John  Erskine,  The  Elizabethan  Lyric,  p.  56).  The  titles  of  the  Elizabethan 
collections  are  suggestive  of  the  fascination  and  spontaneity  of  the  poetry 
they  contained :  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices  (1576),  Gorgeous  Gallery  of  Gallant 
Inventions  (1578),  Handful  of  Pleasant  Delights  (1584),  The  Phcenix  Nest 
(1593),  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  (1599),  England's  Helicon  (1600),  Davison's 
Poetical  Rhapsody  (1602).  Then,  too,  there  were  scores  of  song-books  in 
which  lyrics  were  set  to  music.  But  many  of  the  best  songs  are  to  be  found 
^  in  the  plays  of  the  period.  These  incidental  songs,  to  fulfil  their  purpose 
of  affording  pleasurable  lyric  interludes,  had  of  course  to  be  very  singable, ' 
simple,  short,  and,  preferably,  English  and  popular  in  feeling.  How  well 
such  dramatists  as  John  Lyly,  George  Peele,  and  Shakespeare  met  these 
requirements  may  be  judged  from  our  selections. 

From  1590  to  1600  was  the  blossom-time  of  the  Elizabethan  sonnet. 
At  first  sonnets  tended  to  be  written  in  sequences,  i.e.  with  a  more  or  less 
definite,  narrative  or  other,  plan.  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  AstropJiel  and  Stella 
(1591),  Spenser's  Amoretti  (1595),  and  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  (1609)  are  the 
chief  examples  of  this  tendency.  Later,  the  definite  sequence  yielded  to 
the  loosely  arranged  collection  in  which  the  interrelation  of  the  sonnets  was 
merely  ostensible  or  accidental. 

Sir  Edward  Dyer.  My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  Is  :  set  to  music  in 
William  Byrd's  song-book,  Psalmes,  Sonnets  and  Songs  of  Sadness  and 


6oO  NOTES   TO   LYRICS 

Pietie  (1588).  4.  kind,  nature.  13.  stay,  support,  source  of  endurance; 
cf.  Psalms  xviii.  18. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  the  Faery 
Queen  :  sonnet  appended  to  Spenser's  Faerie  Queetie,  Books  I- III,  1590. 
Milton  may  have  had  in  mind  the  first  line  of  this  noble  poem  when  he 
began  his  sonnet  to  his  wife:  "Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint." 
Raleigh  states  his  belief  that  Spenser's  beautiful  poem,  which  he  calls  a 
quaint  fancy,  or  "conceit,"  is  superior  to  the  poetry  of  the  great  Italian 
master  of  romance,  Petrarch.  He  puts  his  compliment  in  the  form  of  an 
allegorical  vision :  the  graces.  Love  and  Virtue,  transfer  their  attendance 
from  the  grave  of  Laura,  the  lady  of  Petrarch's  inspiration,  in  whose  praise 
his  sonnets  were  written,  to  the  Faerie  Queene;  at  this  "celestial  theft'.' 
Petrarch  weeps  and  even  Homer  trembles  for  his  laurels.  For  the  versifi- 
cation see  below,  under  Shakespeare.  2-3.  that  temple  where  the  vestal 
flame  was  wont  to  burn:  in  the  temple  of  Vesta  at  Rome  "a  sacred  fire, 
tended  by  six  virgin  priestesses  called  Vestals,  was  kept  religiously  aflame." 
Vesta  is  the  divinity  of  the  hearth,  public  and  private.  See  CI.  M.,  p.  35. 
The  Conclusion  :  verses  found  in  Raleigh's  Bible  in  the  gatehouse  at 
Westminster,  said  to  have  been  written  the  night  before  his  execution. 

Sir  Phillp  Sidney.  A  Bargain:  written  about  1580;  later  revised, 
but  not  improved,  in  sonnet  form  (1590). 

John  Lyly.  Apelles'  Song:  from  the  close  of  Act  III  of  Lyly's 
comedy  Alexander  and  Campaspe  (acted  about  1581).  Apelles  the  artist, 
commissioned  by  Alexander  the  Great  to  paint  the  portrait  of  the  con- 
queror's favorite,  Campaspe,  has  fallen  in  love  with  the  girl.  For  Cupid 
and  his  mother,  Venus,  and  her  doves  and  sparrows  see  CI.  M.,  pp. 
31-32. 

George  Peele.  Harvestmen  A-Singing:  from  Peele's  comedy  The 
Old  Wives  [i.e.  Wife's]  Tale  (acted  about  1590). 

Robert  Greene.  Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child  :  from  the  pastoral 
romance,  Menaphon  (1589).  i.  wanton,  frolicsome  creature  {cf.  wag,  1.  3), 
used  as  a  term  of  endearment ;  cf.  similar  use  of  rogue,  rascal.  13.  stint, 
cease.     15.   by  course,  in  a  stream.     28.   bliss,  bless. 

Christopher  Marlowe.  The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love  : 
first  published  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  (1599);  written  before  1593. 
2.   prove,  make  trial  of.     4.   yields :  singular  by  poetic  license. 

William  Shakespeare.  Sonnets.  For  the  versification  see  In- 
troduction, §§  26 ;  27.  Most  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets  seem  to  have  been 
produced  in  1594.  They  deal  with  different  themes  and  are  generally  of 
the  conventional  and  affected  manner  of  the  day.  Genuine  emotion  occa- 
sionally displays  itself  in  the  series  addressed  to  a  young  nobleman,  possibly 
Shakespeare's  patron,  Henry  W' riothesley,  Earl  of  Southampton.  Perhaps 
the  three  sonnets  given  in  the  text  were  of  this  series.  These  sonnets 
offer  no  unusual  diflSculties  to  the  reader :  hence  it  has  been  thought  best 
to  present  them  without  annotation.    They  have  been  included  in  this  book 


CAVALIER  LYRISTS  6oi 

as  representative  of  Shakespeare's  non-dramatic  poetry ;  and,  as  such,  may 
profitably  be  compared  with  the  sonnets  of  Milton  or  of  Wordsworth.  Songs. 
Winter:  horn  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  Act  V,  Sc.  ii  (1590).  9.  keel,  cool, 
by  skimming  or  by  stirring  it  round.  11.  saw,  maxim,  or,  better,  long 
story.  14.  crabs,  wild  apples.  Who  is  Silvia?  from  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona,  Act  IV,  Sc.  ii  (about  1592).  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree: 
from  As  You  Like  It,  Act  II,  Sc.  v  (1599).  36.  turn,  fashion,  adapt. 
43.  i'  the  sun,  out-of-doors.  Ingratitude  :  from  the  same.  Act  II,  Sc.  vii. 
63.  warp,  rufiie  in  freezing.  Dirge  of  Love  :  from  Twelfth  Night,  Act 
II,  Sc.  iv  (about  1601).  70.  come  away,  come  on.  71.  cypress,  cofl&n 
of  cypress  wood,  or  branches  of  the  cypress  strewn  upon  the  grave;  or, 
out  not  likely,  crape  for  the  shroud  (cf.  the  French  crespe;  see  Diet,  and 
the  note  on  1.  35  of  II  Penseroso).  76-77:  Of  all  who  have  acted  the 
"part"  of  death  in  the  drama  of  life  no  one  has  been  so  true  to  the  r6le 
as  I.  AuBADE :  hom\Cynibeline,  Act  II,  Sc.  iii  (1609).  The  aubade  is  a 
morning  song.  87.  Phoebus,  the  sun-god,  the  sun.  89.  chaliced,  cup- 
shaped.  90.  Mary-buds,  marigolds.  The  Fairy  Life  :  from  The  Tem- 
pest, Act  I,  Sc.  ii  (1611).  98.  whist,  hushed,  silent.  99.  featly,  deftly. 
100.  burthen,  burden,  refrain.  The  burden  here  is  probably  the  line 
Bow-wow.  A  Sea  Dirge:  from  the  same.  Ariel's  Song:  from  the 
same. 

Thomas  Campion.  Cherry-Ripe  (1606),  6.  '  Cherry  Ripe,' the  street- 
cry  common  even  at  the  present  time.  8.  orient :  this  term  has  a  special 
meaning  when  applied  to  pearls ;  see  Did. 

Ben  Jonson.  Song  to  Celia  (written  1605;  first  published  in  The 
Forest,  1616).  Hymn  to  Diana:  from  Cynthia's  Revels',  a  comedy  satiriz- 
ing the  affectations  of  the  court  (acted  1600).  On  Diana  (called  Cynthia 
from  her  birthplace.  Mount  Cynthus),  virgin  huntress,  goddess  of  the  moon, 
see  CI.  M.,  pp.  29-31.  21.  Hesperus  entreats :  the  evening  star  prays  for 
the  light  of  the  moon.  23-24 :  the  shadow  of  the  earth  eclipsing  the  moon. 
26.  clear,  illuminate.  Simplex  Munditiis  :  from  the  comedy,  The  Silent 
Woman  (1609-1610).  The  song  has  no  title  in  the  play;  the  present  title 
is  the  Latin  for  'simple  elegance.'  35.  Still  to  be  neat:  always  to  be 
resplendent  {Lat.,  nitere,  to  shine)  or  finical  in  dress.  The  adjective  'neat* 
is  not  used  as  nowadays  for 'tidy.'     44.   taketh,  captivates. 

Francis  Beaumont.  On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey  (written 
before  1616;  published  1653).  5.  lie,  had  realms:  who  had  realms. 
7,   pulpits :  figuratively  for  tombs  or  coffins.     18.   once,  once  for  all. 

CAVALIER  LYRISTS 

Robert  Herrick.  The  two  selections  are  from  the  Hesperides  (1648). 
The  poems  of  that  collection  were  written  between  1629  and  1640. 

George  Herbert.  Virtue  :  from  The  Temple  (1633),  a  volume  of 
Herbert's  devotional  verses  written  between  1630  and  1633.     2.   bridal. 


602  NOTES   TO  MILTON 

bridal  day.  See  bridal  in  Diet.  5.  angry,  red  ;  brave,  showy,  splendid. 
II.  closes:  in  music,  the  conclusion  of  a  strain  or  of  a  musical  period  or 
passage. 

James  Shirley.  The  Glories  of  our  Blood  and  State  :  from  the 
masque,  or  lyrical-dramatic  entertainment,  The  Contention  of  Ajax  and 
Ulysses  (1659  ;  written  about  1640). 

Edmund  Waller.     Go,   Lovely    Rose  !    (1645).     7-   graces  spied : 

these  syllables  have  been  criticised  as  lacking  euphony  and  it  has  been 

.  conjectured  that  Waller  may  have  written  '  graces  eyed '  or  '  grace  espied.' 

William  Habington.  Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientiam  :  from  the  col- 
lection of  poems  addressed  to  his  wife,  whom  in  his  verses  he  called 
"Castara";  the  title  of  the  collection  also  is  Castara  (1639-1640).  The 
Latin  title  of  this  poem  is  from  the  Latin  version  of  the  Nineteenth 
Psalm,  —  the  second  verse  :  "  Night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge." 
The  first  verse  of  the  Psalm,  "  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God  ; 
and  the  firmament  showeth  his  handiwork,"  is  the  theme  of  this  noble 
poem.  5.  My  soul  her  wings  :  cf.  Isaiah  xl.  31.  9.  firmament :  the 
vault  of  heaven  viewed  as  something  solid  and  abiding  ;  cf.  firm.  15.  char- 
acter, sign  or  letter  of  the  alphabet.  25.  that  from  the  farthest  North  : 
cf.  Jeremiah  i.  14,   15  ;  Daniel  xi.   13-15*. 

Sir  John  Suckling.  Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover  ?  from  the 
pldiyAglaura  (acted  1637).  Professor  Schelling  says  that  this  poem  "  is 
the  very  perfection  of  the  bantering,  satirical  lyric,  in  which  the  age  of 
Charles  excelled." 

Richard  Lovelace.  To  Lucasta  (1649).  These  lines  may  have  more 
poetry  than  truth  in  them,  but  they  are  as  beautiful  as  Suckling's  flippant 
verses  are  clever. 

Henry  Vaughan.  The  Retreat  (1650).  This  poem  should  be  com- 
pared in  respect  of  theme  and  handling  with  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  Inti- 
mations of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood  (see  intro- 
duction to  notes  on  that  Ode).  Wordsworth  knew  this  poem.  2.  angel-, 
angelic.  4.  second  race  :  this  life  regarded  as  a  second  life,  succeeding 
some  kind  of  spiritual  existence  before  birth.  8.  my  first  love  :  cf.  the 
capitalized  '  His,'  1.  10.  24.  train  :  retinue  or  company  of  spirits  in  the 
previous  life.  26.  City  of  palm  trees  :  where  the  Israelites  wandering 
in  the  wilderness  found  water  and  comfort,  Exodits  xv.  27  ;  cf.  the 
righteous  that  flourish  like  palm  trees  "  in  the  courts  of  our  God," 
Psalms  xcii.  12-14.  30-  by  backward  steps  would  move  :  would  regain 
the  spirit- world  from  which  I  came. 

MILTON  i 

l'allegro  and  il  penseroso 

These  poems  were  written,  probably  sometime  in  1632,  at  the  beginning  of 
Milton's  residence  at  Horton.  They  are  companion  poems,  and  as  such 
each  must  be  read  in  the  light  of  the  other.     L' Allegro  (the  cheerful  man) 


UALLEGRO  603 

is  here  the  lover  of  society  and  of  unreflecting,  though  innocent,  mirth.  // 
Penseroso  (the  thoughtful  man)  is  the  recluse,  living,  not  like  L' Allegro  in  the 
enjoyment  of  the  present,  but  with  an  eye  toward  a  larger  life  in  the  future. 
U Allegro  is  ever  ready  to  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  his  fellows.  //  Penseroso 
is  a  seeker  after  that  solitude  which  furnishes  opportunity  for  study  and 
meditation.  Each  is  entirely  unable  to  appreciate,  or  even  to  understand, 
the  ideals  of  the  other. 

Though  each  poem,  in  a  way,  represents  the  manner  in  which  a  day  might 
ideally  be  spent  (in  L' Allegro,  from  early  morning  till  midnight,  and  in  // 
Penseroso,  from  early  evening  till  the  next  noon),  the  poet  does  much  more 
than  this,  by  making  the  day  in  each  case  representative  of  the  whole  life 
which  each  character  would  desire  to  live.  In  all  probability  Milton  did  not 
intend  either  of  these  poems  to  picture  the  true  ideal  ;  but  rather  designed  to 
suggest  through  them  complementary,  though  contrasted,  aspects  of  human 
temperament.  Thus  the  two  poems  are  really  not  two,  but  one,  "  whose 
theme,"  as  some  one  has  said,  "  is  the  praise  of  the  reasonable  life." 

The  metre  of  the  poems  is  suggestive.  In  the  II  Penseroso  the  lines  are, 
for  the  most  part,  smooth,  unbroken,  iambic  tetrameters —  well  suited  to  the 
thoughtful,  contemplative  poem.  The  iambic  tetrameter  of  L' Allegro,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  varied  by  trochaic  effects.  These  are  produced  by  what  is 
called  truncation  (see  Introduction,  §  20,  4)  :  the  first  light  syllable  of 
the  iambic  tetrameter  being  omitted,  so  that  the  rhythm  reads  like  that  of  tro- 
chaic tetrameter,  or  trochaic  tetrameter  catalectic  (last  syllable  wanting); 
these  quickly  spoken,  lively  feet  suggesting  the  mood  of  the  more  sprightly 
composition.  As  illustrative  of  this,  note  the  lines  where  each  of  the  two 
men  summons  his  ideal  divinity  : 

/  /  /      / 

Come,  and  trip  it,  as  ye  go.  VAlleg.  (33). 

JT  /  /  / 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure.  //  Pens.  (31). 

Since  these  poems  are  not  divided  into  stanzas,  in  the  following  notes  a 
grouping  of  lines  has  been  made  which  may  serve  for  stanzaic  divisions. 

l' ALLEGRO 

1-10.  Observe  and  describe  the  rhyme  and  metre  of  these  lines,  showing 
how  the  rough  and  irregular  verse  is  well  suited  to  the  mood  of  the  passage. 

1.  Melancholy,  here  equivalent  to  an  austere  and  meditative  conduct  of  Ufe. 

2.  Cerberus.  For  this  three-headed  dog  of  the  underworld,  see  CI.  D.  or 
CI.  M.,  pp.  47,  220,  355.  3.  Stygian.  For  Styx,  the  river  bounding  the 
infernal  regions,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  47.  5.  uncouth  (past  part,  of  A.-S. 
un  +  cunnan),  hence,  originally,  not  known.  But  that  which  was  not  known 
was  once  naturally  regarded  with  distrust  or  aversion  ;  hence  the  secondary 
meanings,  —  first,  outlandish  ;  then,  ugly  or  repulsive.    Here  the  poet 


H^c 


604  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

evidently  has  in  mind  both  the  radical  and  the  derived  meaning.  lo. 
Cimmerian  :  see  CL  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  176.  What  attributes  of  Melancholy- 
does  V Allegro  imply  by  the  imaginary  parentage  he  ascribes  ?  the  birth- 
place ?  the  surroundings  ? 

11-24.  Show  the  metre  and  rhyme  of  this  and  succeeding  divisions  as 
contrasted  with  the  first  ten  lines.  12.  yclept  (from  A.-S.  ge,  or  y,  or  i  — 
in  early  English  frequently  a  sign  of  the  perfect  passive  participle  +  clipian, 
to  call)  hence,  called  or  named.  Euphrosyne,  one  of  the  Graces  :  see 
CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  36.  13.  heart-easing.  Note  the  felicity  of  this  com- 
pound epithet  and  of  others  of  the  same  kind.  In  his  coinage  of  such  words, 
Milton  probably  excels  all  other  English  poets.  Always  suggestive  and 
frequently  beautiful,  they  have  been  termed,  not  inaptly,  "  poems  in  minia- 
ture." 14  ;  16.  lovely  Venus  ;  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI- 
M.,  pp.  31-34,  44  ;  and  show  what  characteristics  such  parentage  would 
tend  to  give  to  Mirth.  17.  sager  :  an  adjective,  but  here  used  with  adver- 
bial force.  19.  Zephyr  with  Aurora.  By  reference  to  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp. 
38, 39,  show  why  Milton  preferred  this  parentage  for  '  Mirth '  rather  than  the 
one  given  above.  Probably  no  English  poet  has  known  or  understood  the 
Classics  better  than  Milton.  Any  deviation  from  the  accepted  stories  or 
genealogies  of  Greek  mythology  must,  therefore,  be  regarded  as  a  conscious 
alteration  for  purposes  of  his  own.  24.  debonair  (Fr.  de  -\-  hon  -{-  aire),  of 
good  bearing  or  manners. 

25-36.  Name  the  companions  of  Mirth,  describe  each,  and  show  the 
attributes  which  make  each  good  company.  29.  Hebe's  cheek.  For  this 
goddess  of  youth,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  36.  33.  trip  it.  Here  '  it '  is  a 
cognate  accusative,  the  meaning  of  which  is  derived  from  the  governing  verb. 
33-34.  Come  .  .  .  toe.  Note  this  well-known  couplet,  now  popularly 
applied  to  the  encouragement  of  dancing,  but  invented  by  the  poet  of 
Puritanism.     36.   Liberty.     Why  is  *  Liberty  '  called  a  mountain  nymph  ? 

37-40.  These  four  lines  are  transitional,  introducing  the  rest  of  the 
poem.  V  Allegro  now  imagines  himself  spending  a  day  in  conformity  with  his 
ideals  of  happiness.  See  introduction  to  notes.  40.  unreproved  pleasures 
free.  Note  the  order  of  the  words  —  very  common  in  Milton  :  a  post-posi- 
tive adjective  modifying  the  idea  expressed  in  the  two  words  which  precede 
it.     unreproved,  unreprovable,  i.e.  innocent. 

41-68.  Describe  the  five  definite  pictures  which  together  make  up  this 
division.  41.  To  hear.  Show  whether  this  is  an  infinitive  of  purpose  (or 
result)  modifying '  admit '  and  coordinate  with  *  to  live  '  (39),  or  is  in  apposi- 
tion with  '  pleasures,'  and  one  of  them.  41  ;  42.  begin  ;  startle.  Explain 
the  sjnitax  of  these  infinitives.  44.  dappled  dawn.  Describe  the  picture. 
45.  to  come.  The  syntax  and  consequent  meaning  of  this  infinitive  offer 
a  puzzle.  Does  the  lark  come,  or  V Allegro,  or  the  dawn?  To  whom  or 
what,  in  each  case,  would  '  good  morrow  '  be  bidden  ?  What,  in  each  case, 
would  be  the  syntax  of '  to  come  '  ?  This  last  question  is  very  important  and 
illustrates  something  the  student  will  frequently  notice,  viz.,  how  necessary  to 


U ALLEGRO  605 

accurate  interpretation  is  a  clear  understanding  of  S3aitactical  relations.  45. 
in  spite  of,  not,  as  usual,  notwithstanding  ;  but  rather,  in  order  to  spite 
or  defy.  52.  before,  a  post-positive  preposition.  53-56.  Oft  .  .  .  shrill. 
Put  these  four  hnes  into  prose  order,  showing  what  '  echoing  '  modifies, 
and  indicating  the  images  the  lines  possess  for  eye  and  ear.  57.  walking. 
Give  the  syntax,  not  unseen,  he  Hkes  company.  Compare  this  line  with 
II  Pens.  (65),  and  show  which  of  the  two  Hnes  seems  to  have  been  modelled 
on  the  other.  62.  clouds,  nominative  independent  before  a  participle. 
Compare  the  Latin  ablative  absolute,  dight,  arrayed,  is  now  rarely  used. 
67.  tells  his  tale,  counts  his  number  (of  sheep),  the  old  meaning  of  '  tale.' 
What  hours  of  the  day  have  the  occurrences  of  this  division  occupied  ? 

69-90.  69-70.  Straight  .  .  .  measures.  Note  the  effect  of  the  trochaic 
lines  and  feminine  rhymes  as  marking  a  sudden  transition  of  thought. 
69.  Straight,  straightway,  70.  round,  an  adverb.  71.  lawns,  a  favorite 
word  with  Milton,  and  often  found  in  other  poets.  It  always  means  a 
large,  open,  grassy  stretch  of  country,  —  not  a  cultivated  lawn  or  grass-plot. 
75.  pied.  Show  whether  this  modifies  *  meadows '  or  *  daisies.'  78. 
bosomed.  Explain.  79.  some  beauty  lies,  some  high-born  and  beautiful 
lady  dwells.  80.  cynosure  :  see  Diet,  for  derivation  and  history,  showing 
how  a  word  that  originally  meant  dog's  tail  has  come  to  signify  centre  of 
attraction.  83.  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  common  names  for  shepherds  in 
pastoral  poets,  such  as  the  Greek  Theocritus  or  the  Roman  Virgil.  Likewise 
'  ThestyHs,'  1.  88,  and  '  Phyllis,'  1.  86,  are  shepherdesses.  What  shows,  as 
was  indicated  at  the  beginning  of  these  notes,  that  the  poet  is  not  endeavor- 
ing to  depict  any  single  day  ?  87.  bower,  as  often  in  Milton,  means  a 
dwelling  place  —  here  a  cottage.     90.   tanned  haycock.     Why  '  tanned  '  ? 

91-99.  91.  secure  (Lat.  se,  or  sine,  -\-cura),  with  its  radical  meaning, 
without  care,  care-free.  Remember  that  Milton  wrote  nearly  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  and  that  we  may  consequently  expect  to  find  many  words  in 
their  earlier,  radical,  or  primary  meaning,  rather  than  their  later,  derived,  or 
secondary  meaning.  94.  jocund.  Observe  that  this  is  a  transferred  epithet. 
What  is  really  '  jocund  '  ?  rebeck,  a  sort  of  three-stringed  fiddle.  96. 
chequered  shade.  Why  chequered  ?  98.  holiday.  What  was  the  original 
meaning  of  '  holiday '  ?     See  derivation  and  history. 

100-116.  loi.  feat,  in  Milton's  time  pronounced  fate,  and  rhyming 
with  *  eat '  (past  tense).  102.  Mab,  the  fairy,  "  no  bigger  than  the  agate 
stone  on  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman  "  (as  Mercutio  says  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet),  whose  function  it  was  to  bring  dreams.  Milton  may  have  had  in 
mind  Ben  Jonson's  — 

"This  is  Mab,  the  mistress  Fairy 
That  doth  nightly  rob  the  dairy, 


She  that  pinches  country  wenches 
If  they  rub  not  clean  their  benches.' 


6o6  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

junkets,  a  kind  of  cream  cheese.  See  first  couplet  above.  103.  She,  a 
country  wench,  as  in  second  couplet  above.  104.  he,  the  second  teller  of 
stories,  a  shepherd  or  farm  servant,  is  led  by  Friar  Rush  (a  house  haunter, 
confused  here  with  Jack  o'  Lantern  or  Will  o'  the  Wisp)  to  a  spot  where  he 
sees  the  '  drudging  gobhn,'  Robin  Goodfellow,  or  the  Puck  of  Shakespeare, 
perform  the  feats  of  U.  105-114.  106.  cream-bowl,  '  duly  set '  out  by  the 
farm  servants  to  tempt  the  sturdy  little  goblin  to  do  their  work  for  them. 
110-112.  lubber  fiend,  stretched,  chimney's  length,  hairy  strength — all 
seem  expressions  oddly  suited  to  Robin  Goodfellow.  Why?  113.  crop- 
fiill,  stomach-stuffed,  flings.  Observe  the  headlong  haste  implied.  114. 
matin  (a  French  word,  meaning  morning),  here  means  morning  call,  just 
as  the  matin-bell  called  to  early  prayers.  115.  tales  :  see  note  on  '  clouds,' 
1.  62. 

117-124.  Discuss  the  following  interpretations  of  this  passage :  (i)  That 
V Allegro  really  goes  to  the  city  after  his  rustic  companions  have  retired. 
(2)  That  '  then  '  means  not  afterward,  but  on  other  occasions  or  also,  the 
visit  to  the  city  being  actual,  but  on  a  different  day.  (3)  That  his  visit  is  in 
imagination  and  revery,  brought  about  by  his  readings  after  his  compan- 
ions have  gone  to  bed.  n8.  busy  hum.  Observe  the  onomatopoeia. 
120.  weeds,  now  used  chiefly  in  the  expression  "  widow's  weeds."  Thus 
many  words,  no  longer  in  common  use,  are  still  retained  in  compounds  or 
special  phrases  :  cf.  riding-habit,  dove-cote,  hand-kerchief,  etc.  triumphs 
(from  Lat.  triumphus,  a  procession,  originally  in  honor  of  Bacchus,  and 
later  to  grace  a  Roman  victory),  here  some  kind  of  imposing  tournament. 
122.  Rain  influence,  in  its  radical  sense  (Lat.  in -{■  finer e);  give  forth,  like 
the  stars,  a  magic  control  which  shapes  the  destinies  of  mankind.  122. 
judge  the  prize.  This  '  influence  '  or  control  was  such  that  those  upon 
whom  it  flowed  could  not  help  but  win.  In  this  way  the  prize  is  judged  (or 
adjudged)  by  the  '  bright  eyes.'  123.  wit.  The  contests  seem  to  be  not 
only  physical,  such  as  tourneys,  but  also  intellectual.     What,  for  instance  ? 

125-134.  125-126.  Hymen  .  .  .  taper  clear.  The  clear  taper  was 
supposed  to  foretell  a  happy  marriage  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  36,  165. 
127.  pomp,  etc.  The  god  of  marriage,  thus  portrayed,  was  no  uncommon 
figure  in  the  masques  and  pageants  of  Milton's  time.  128.  pageantry. 
Pageants  were  originally  movable  platforms  or  wagons  on  which  actors  per- 
formed ;  then  the  word  came  to  refer  to  the  performance  on  such  a  platform  ; 
and  finally  it  signified  any  such  elaborate  spectacle,  wherever  produced. 
129-130.  Such  .  .  .  stream.  Note  the  exquisite  thought,  imagery,  and 
sound  of  these  lines.  They  form  a  bit  of  rare  poetry.  132.  Jonson's 
learned  sock.  Discuss  the  implied  comparison  between  this  scholarly  writer 
of  dramas  and  masques,  and  '  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child.'  sock. 
Look  up  the  soccus,  or  low  sHpper  of  the  classic  comedian,  as  contrasted  with 
the  buskin,  or  cothurnus,  of  the  tragedian.  133.  Fancy's  child.  Explain. 
134.  native  wood-notes  wild.  Name  three  or  four  comedies  of  Shake- 
speare which  this  particularly  describes.  j 

/ 


IL  PENSEROSO  607 

135-150.  Observe  the  liquid  sounds  and  onomatopoetic  effects  of  which 
these  lines  are  full.  135-  against,  as  a  protection  from.  136.  Lydian  airs. 
The  three  kinds  of  Greek  music  were  the  serious  and  majestic  Dorian,  the 
bright  and  sprightly  Phrygian,  and  the  soft  and  voluptuous  Lydian. 
137.  Married  to  immortal  verse,  i.e.  music  and  words  joined  together  as 
in  an  opera.  138.  meeting  soul.  Why  '  meeting  '  ?  141.  wanton  heed  ; 
giddy  cunning.  What  does  the  poet  mean  by  these  seeming  parado.xes  ? 
142.  voice  :  see  note  on  1.  62.  143-144.  Untwisting  .  .  .  harmony.  The 
harmony  in  the  human  soul  is  assumed  to  be  bound  or  fettered,  except  on 
those  rare  occasions  when  some  strong  stimulus  or  emotion  untwists  its  fetters 
and  sets  it  free.  145-150.  Orpheus  .  .  .  Eurydice.  '  Review  the  story  in 
detail  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  165-168.  147.  Elysian  :  see  CI.  D.  or 
CI.  M.,  pp.  51,  52.     149.   quite.     How  nearly  did  Pluto  free  Eurydice  ? 

Comment  upon  the  melody  of  11.  135-153,  noting  the  sequence  of  vowel- 
tones  and  of  consonants  (Introduction,  §  21).  Indicate  the  metres  of 
11.  12,  13,  19-22,  25,  45,  46,  69-72,  131-136. 

IL  PENSEROSd 

; 

See  remarks  introducing  the  notes  to  4^,  Allegro.  As  in  the  case  of  the 
other  poem,  a  grouping  of  lines  has  here  been  made  to  serve  for  stanzaic 
divisions. 

1-10.  Make  a  comparison  between  these  lines  and  the  opening  Unes  of 
U Allegro,  noting  metre,  rhyme,  and  contents.  2.  brood  .  .  .  bred.  They 
spring  from  Folly  alone,  i.e.  are  utterly  frivolous.  3.  bested.  This  uncom- 
mon verb  here  means  profit,  satisfy,  or  avail.  6.  fond  (originally  fanned, 
the  perfect* participle  of  the  A.-S.  verb  fonnen,  to  be  foolish).  As  late  as 
Shakespeare's  time  the  word  was  generally  used  in  this  radical  sense  of  fool- 
ish. Its  derived  meanings  have  been  (i)  foolishly  loving  ;  (2)  affectionate  ; 
(3)  loving  —  the  early  idea  having  fully  disappeared.  7-8.  As  thick.  .  .  . 
beams.  How  are  these  foolish  fancies  like  the  motes  of  the  sunbeam  ? 
10.  fickle  pensioners,  a  retinue  or  body-guard  which  cannot  be  relied 
upon  by  the  lord  or  lady  who  supports  it.  Explain  the  application. 
Morpheus.  For  peculiarities  of  the  god  of  dreams  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M., 
pp.  54,  177. 

11-30.  Show  the  effect  of  the  change  in  metre.  Compare  with  UAlleg. 
(11-24).  Point  out  the  lines  in  this  passage  which  have  no  counterpart  in 
V Allegro.  12.  Melancholy  :  see  note  on  UAlleg.  (i).  13-16.  Whose  .  .  . 
hue.  Just  as  a  light  may  be  so  dazzling  that  the  eye  is  blinded  and  sees  only 
darkness,  so  V Allegro  has  seen  nothing  but  blackness,  and  accordingly  has 
called  her  *  loathed,'  not  realizing  that  the  blackness  is  his  own  imperfection. 
A  striking  analogy  to  this  thought  is  the  poetic  conception  of  the  "  music  of 
the  spheres,"  according  to  which  the  human  ear,  oblivious  to  the  divine 
harmonies,  perceives  only  silence.  17.  in  esteem,  in  the  estimation  of  the 
observer.     i8.   Prince  Memnon's  sister.     For  Memnon,  king  of  the  Ethio- 


6o8  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

pians  and  friend  of  the  Trojans,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  179,  307.  There 
are  only  the  vaguest  accounts  of  any  sister  ;  yet  Milton  creates  her  as  a 
counterpart  of  Melancholy.  Blackness  would  '  beseem  '  or  suit  such  a 
beauty  as  hers.  19-21.  starred  Ethiop  queen  .  .  .  offended.  Read  the 
story  of  Cassiopeia  in  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  211-212.  According  to  the  usual 
version,  it  was  the  beauty  of  Cassiopeia's  daughter,  Andromeda,  which  was 
compared  with  that  of  the  sea  nymphs.  Both  mother  and  daughter  were 
afterward  placed  in  the  sky  as  constellations  ;  hence  *  starred.'  22.  higher, 
than  who  ?  23-30.  long  of  yore,  solitary  Saturn,  Saturn's  reign,  While 
yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove,  all  point  back  to  the  "  Golden  Age  "  before 
Jupiter  had  ascended  the  throne.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  10,  59,  366. 
Also  determine  the  attributes  of  Melancholy  through  the  parentage  assigned 
to  her.  See  Saturn  (or  Cronus,  his  Greek  prototype)  and  Vesta  in  CI.  D. 
or  CI.  M.,  pp.  5  and  35.  29.  woody  Ida,  more  probably  the  mountain  of 
Crete  than  that  of  Asia  Minor. 

31-54.  Compare  with  the  corresponding  passage  in  U Allegro.  Also 
contrast  the  rhythm  of  the  two  passages.  31.  pensive  Nun.  Why  so  called? 
33.  grain  (Lat.  granum),  a  seed  or  kernel ;  hence  a  seedlike  object,  such 
as  the  body  of  the  cochineal  insect,  from  which  we  get  a  rich  purple  dye. 
Thus  '  grain  '  comes  to  be  used  for  this  red  or  purple  color.  35,  cypress 
(or  Cyprus)  lawn,  refers  to  a  kind  of  fine  crape.  36.  decent,  used  here  in  its 
radical  sense  of  comely  or  becoming  :  cf.  De^.  Vil.  {12).  39.  commercing, 
holding  intercourse  or  communion  with.  40.  soul  :  see  note  on  UAlleg. 
(62).  42.  Forget  .  .  .  marble,  become  like  a  statue  in  thy  rapt  thought- 
fulness.  46-48.  Spare  Fast  .  .  .  sing.  Milton  often  repeats  this  endorse- 
ment of  "  plain  living  and  high  thinking,"  —  that  only  the  temperate  or 
abstemious  man  can  '  diet '  (or  dine)  with  the  gods  ;  that  he  only  can  receive 
true  poetic  inspiration, — '  hear  the  Muses  sing.'  Look  up  the  Muses  in 
CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  37.  52-54.  Him  that  yon  soars  .  .  .  Contempla- 
tion. Professor  Masson  thus  explains  this  passage  :  "  A  daring  use  of  the 
great  vision,  in  Ezekiel,  chap,  x,  of  the  sapphire  throne,  the  wheels  of  which 
were  four  cherubs,  while  in  the  midst  of  them  and  underneath  the  throne 
was  a  burning  fire.  Milton  ventures  to  name  one  of  these  cherubs  who  guide 
the  fiery  wheelings  of  the  visionary  throne." 

55-84.  Give  not  only  the  theme  of  this  division,  but  also  the  extent  and 
theme  of  each  of  its  three  subdivisions.  Point  out  the  corresponding  passage 
in  L' Allegro.  55.  hist,  now  an  interjection,  but,  as  used  here,  an  impera- 
tive, pure  onomatopoeia  and  very  expressive.  56.  Philomel.  A  common 
poetical  term  for  the  nightingale.  For  her  story,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp. 
249-250.  57.  plight.  This  may  be  the  present  word  meaning  unfortunate 
condition  ;  or,  as  some  think,  a  strain  of  music,  as  being  made  up  of  sounds 
interwoven  or  plaited.  59.  While  Cynthia  .  .  .  yoke.  The  birthplace  of 
Diana  was  Mt.  Cjoithus  in  Delos  ;  hence  her  name  '  Cynthia.'  See  CI.  D. 
or  CI.  M.,  p.  29.  The  '  dragon  yoke  '  was  probably  Milton's  invention. 
Dragons  were  driven  by  Ceres,  Medea,  and  others,  but  not  by  Diana.     See 


IL  PENSEROSO  609 

note  on  V Alleg.  (19).  60.  accustomed  oak.  Is  the  oak  '  accustomed  '  as 
respects  the  bird,  the  moon,  or  the  poet?  63-64.  Thee  .  .  .  even-song. 
Put  these  two  lines  into  prose  order.  65.  unseen :  cj.  with  '  not  unseen,' 
V Alleg.  (57),  and  see  note.  68.  highest  noon:  i.e.  the  zenith.  74. 
curfew  (Fr.  couvre  -{-feu,  cbverfire),  a  bell  rung  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  originally  as  a  signal  for  fires  to  be  extinguished.  See 
Gray's  Elegy  (i).  76.  Swinging  .  .  .  roar.  Show  the  effect  of  the 
alliteration  and  the  onomatopoeia.  78.  fit,  suit  my  mood.  83.  bellman's 
drowsy  charm,  the  night-watchman  used  to  repeat  pious  verses  to  charm 
evil  away  from  the  doors.  This  was  naturally  a  mere  droning  formula; 
hence  '  drowsy.' 

85-96.  87.  out-watch  the  Bear,  stay  up  later  than  the  constellation  of 
the  Great  Bear.  But  in  the  latitude  of  England  this  constellation  does  not 
set,  disappearing  only  with  the  dawn.  Thus  we  may  infer  the  duration  of 
//  Penseroso's  studies.  88.  With  thrice  great  Hermes.  Hermes  Trisme- 
gistus  {i.e.  Hermes,  thrice  great),  a  fabled  Egyptian  king,  was  supposed  to 
have  lived  about  the  time  of  ^Moses.  He  is  probably  the  same  as  the  mythi- 
cal Egyptian  philosopher  Thot,  whom  the  Greeks  believed  identical  with 
their  god  Hermes.  Several  philosophical  works  of  a  mystical  nature,  written 
during  the  early  centuries  of  the  Christian  era,  and  much  studied  in  medi- 
eval times,  were,  in  a  vague  way,  ascribed  to  him;  and  it  is  these  books 
that  //  Penseroso  delights  to  spend  the  night  in  reading.  88-89.  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  i.e.  call  his  spirit  back  from  the  sphere  of  the  other  world 
through  studying  his  philosophy.  II  Penseroso  wishes  to  learn  from  him 
(i)  the  truths  of  immortality  which  he  so  early  taught,  and  (2)  the  doctrine 
of  demonology  suggested  by  him  and  taught  by  his  followers.  These  *  de- 
mons,' or  spirits,  were  divided  into  many  classes,  each  having  a  harmony, 
or  intimate  relation  ('  consent '),  with  one  of  the  primary  elements,  — 
earth,  air,  fire,  and  water.  92.  mansion  (Lat.  manere),  in  its  original  sense 
the  place  where  one  remains,     fleshly  nook,  i.e.  the  body. 

97-102.  98.  In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by,  i.e.  '  sweeping  by 
in  imagination,'  since  he  is  reading  these  Greek  tragedies,  pall  (Lat.  palla) 
is  the  cloak  worn  by  the  tragic  actor,  who  would  also,  in  his  character  of  a 
royal  personage,  carry  a  sceptre.  99.  Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
i.e.  representing  (i)  the  descendants  of  the  house  of  Thebes,  especially 
(Edipus  and  his  children  (such  plays,  for  example,  as  the  Seven  against  Thebes 
of  yEschylus,  and  the  (Edipus  Tyrannus,  the  (Edipus  Colonens,  and  the 
Antigone  of  Sophocles) ;  and  (2)  the  great-grandson  of  Pelops,  Agamemnon, 
and  his  family  (such  plays  as  the  Agamemnon  and  the  Enmenides 
of  ^schylus;  the  Electra  of  Sophocles;  and  the  Iphigenia  in  Aulis,  the 
Iphigenia  in  Tauris,  and  the  Electra  of  Euripides).  100.  Or  the  tale  of 
Troy  divine,  i.e.  tragedies  concerning  characters  who  appear  in  the  Trojan 
war  (for  example,  the  Ajax  and  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles,  and  the  Androm- 
ache and  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides).  Look  up  these  names  in  the  CI.  D. 
or  in  the  CI.  M.,  by  reference  to  the  index,  especially  the  story  of  the  de- 

2R 


6lO  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

scendants  of  Cadmus  and  of  Pelops,  CL  M.,  pp.  261-267,  and  pp.  277-281, 
3i3~3i7-  10 1-  Or  •  •  •  *ge.  Milton  is  undoubtedly  thinking  of  Shake- 
speare ;  perhaps  also  of  Ben  Jonson.  102.  buskined  stage  :  the  stage 
trod  by  actors  wearing  the  buskin  or  cothurnus,  "  the  boot  with  high  heels, 
designed  to  add  to  the  stature,  and  so  to  the  dignity  of  the  tragic  actor  " 
(Hales). 

103-108.  104.  Musaeus,  son  of  Orpheus,  and  earliest  of  Greek  poets. 
For  these  semi-mythological  bards  and  their  adventures,  see  CI.  D.  or  Cl.M., 
pp.  451,  165-168.  107-108.  Drew  .  .  .  seek,  the  same  story  as  suggested 
in  UAlleg.  (145-150). 

109-120.  109.  him  that  left  half  told.  Chaucer,  who  did  not  com- 
plete his  Canterbury  Tales,  left  unfinished  the  Squire's  Tale,  which  tells  of 
the  adventures  of  the  Tartar  king,  *  Cambuscan.'  According  to  this 
story  — 

**This  noble  Kyng,  this  Tartre,  —  this  Cambynskan 
Hadde  two  sones  by  Eltheta  his  wyf , 
Of  which  the  eldest  highte  Algersyf, 
That  other  was  i-cleped  Camballo  ; 
A  doghter  had  this  worthie  King  also 
That  yongest  was,  and  highte  Canace. 


Ther  cam  a  Knight  up-on  a  stede  of  bras, 
And  in  his  hand  a  brood  mirour  of  glas. 
Upon  his  thombe  he  hadde  of  gold  a  ring. 
And  by  his  side  a  naked  swerd  hanging." 


The  horse  of  brass  was  given  to  Cambuscan  ;  to  the  fair  Canace  was 
presented  the  '  ring  '  and  the  '  glass,'  both  '  virtuous,'  or  magically  power- 
ful, since  through  the  one  was  told  the  language  of  every  bird  that  sang,  and 
in  the  other  were  revealed  the  thoughts  of  all  mankind.  Chaucer  does  not 
give  the  name  of  him  '  who  had  Canace  to  wife,'  though  Spenser,  who  con- 
tinued the  poem,  has  supplied  the  omission.  113.  That,  a  relative  pronoun 
referring  to  Canace.  In  the  English  of  to-day  a  non-restrictive  relative 
clause  is  always  introduced  by  who  or  which  ;  but  not  so  in  Milton's  time. 
116.  great  bards  beside.  From  the  three  lines  that  follow,  it  is  clear  that 
the  poet  has  reference  to  Spenser  and  his  Faerie  Queene.  Among  others  in 
his  mind  were  probably  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  the  Italian  poets  of  chivalry. 
120.  Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  Though  this  line  refers 
to  the  allegorical  nature  of  the  writings  of  the  '  great  bards,'  it  also  furnishes 
a  splendid  canon  for  all  true  poetry.     Explain. 

121-130.  121.  Thus  .  .  .  career.  Observe  how  this  pentameter  line 
marks  a  break  in  the  thought.  122.  civil-suited,  the  plain  garb  of  the 
citizen  as  contrasted  with  the  bright  colors  of  the  soldier  or  courtier.  124. 
Attic  boy.  Whenever  Aurora  went  to  meet  her  lover  Cephalus,  she  was 
decked  out  in  her  brightest  colors.  See  Aurora  and  Cephalus  in  CI.  D. 
or  CL  M.,  pp.  172-175.     125.   kerchieft  (Fr.  couvre  -{-chef,  i.e.  cover  for 


IL   PENSEROSO  6ll 

the  head).  128.  his.  The  neuter  possessive -had  hardly  come  into  use  in 
Milton's  time.  130.  minute  drops,  the  drops  at  the  end  of  the  shower, 
falling  at  intervals  of  something  like  a  minute. 

131-164.  131;  132.  fling;  flaring.  Show  how  these  words  are  par- 
ticularly apt  as  indicating  the  attitude  of  II  Penseroso.  134.  Sylvan. 
For  this  Roman  god  of  the  fields  and  forests,  see  CL  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  61. 
135.  monumental,  because  a  massive  memorial  of  past  ages.  136.  rude 
ax  .  .  .  heaved  stroke.  An  interesting  transference  of  epithet,  the  axe 
being  heaved,  and  the  stroke,  rude.  137.  nymphs.  Look  up  the  wood 
nymphs  in  CL  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  45.  140.  profaner  eye.  This  wood  is  II 
Penseroso's  temple,  and  any  intrusion  of  the  merely  inquisitive  would  be 
a  profanation.  145.  concert,  similar  sounds  of  nature.  Note  the  ono- 
matopoeia of  the  two  or  three  preceding  lines.  146.  dewy-feathered. 
Explain.  For  Milton's  use  of  compound  epithets,  see  notes  to  VAlleg. 
(13).  147-150.  And  let  .  .  .  laid.  A  difficult  passage.  Put  it  into 
prose  order  before  attempting  to  decipher  its  meaning.  The  following 
suggestions  may  be  helpful.  '  Displayed  in  airy  stream  '  modifies  and  fol- 
lows '  dream  ' ;  *  laid  softly  on  my  eyehds  '  modifies  and  follows  *  stream  of 
lively  portraiture  ' ;  '  his  '  (see  note  on  1.  128)  refers  to  '  sleep  '  (the  dreams, 
waving  at  the  wings  of  sleep,  thus  casting  images  on  the  eyelids  of  the 
sleeper).  151.  breathe.  Supply  '  let '  from  1.  147.  153.  good.  What 
does  this  modify?     154.   genius,  the  protecting  spirit  of  the  wood. 

165-166.  156.  studious  cloister's  pale,  i.e.  the  precincts  or  enclosure 
C  pale  ')  of  some  institution  established  for  educational  purposes  and  for 
religious  worship.  157.  high  embowed  roof,  the  arched  roof,  possibly  of 
the  same  cloister,  massy  proof,  proof  against  the  mass  they  must  sustain ; 
or,  as  others  think,  proof  against  the  weight  they  must  support,  on  account 
of  their  own  massiveness.  159.  storied  windows,  some  Bible  story  being 
pictured  in  their  stained  glass,  dight :  see  note  on  U Alleg.  (62).  165-166. 
Dissolve  me  .  .  .  mine  eyes,  the  spiritual  exaltation  which  such  a  service, 
amid  such  surroundings,  naturally  tends  to  produce  in  an  emotional  and 
artistic  nature. 

167-174.  These  lines  have  no  counterpart  in  the  other  poem,  for  the 
very  essence  of  U Allegro's  philosophy  was:  Enjoy  the  present,  and  let 
the  future  take  care  of  itself.  167.  weary  age.  Note  the  metonymy. 
169.  hairy  gown,  such  as  was  worn  by  hermits  or  monks  for  penance,  or  by 
holy  men  of  old.  170.  spell,  i.e.  study  out,  slowly,  carefully,  thoughtfully, 
the  mysteries  of  earth  and  of  heaven,  until  finally  the  inward  vision  may  gain 
a  power  like  that  possessed  by  the  prophets. 

176-176.     Compare  with  U Alleg.  (151-152). 

Comment  upon  the  wedding  of  sound  and  sense  in  11.  130-138;  upon 
the  alUteration  and  the  gradation  of  vowel  sounds  in  11.  138-152  and  155- 
166  (Introduction,  §§21,  3;  23,  2).  What  poetic  use  is  made  of  se- 
quences of  proper  names?  Which  are  the  most  ornate  descriptions,  and 
what  is  the  secret  of  their  charm? 


6l2  NOTES   TO  MILTON 


LYCIDAS 

Edward  King,  a  fellow-student  of  Milton  in  Christ's  College,  was  drowned 
in  crossing  from  England  to  Ireland  during  the  summer  of  1637.  King  had 
entered  Cambridge  when  a  boy  of  only  fourteen,  and  had  spent  eleven  years 
—  all  of  his  youth  and  young  manhood  —  as  a  well-loved  son  of  his  alma 
mater.  A  fellow  of  his  college  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  a  tutor  soon  afterward, 
a  candidate  for  the  ministry,  a  verse  writer  (chiefly  in  Latin)  of  at  least  a 
college  reputation,  he  had  so  gained  the  love  of  his  associates  that  they  were 
deeply  affected  by  his  sudden  and  untimely  death.  They  resolved,  therefore, 
to  issue  a  little  book  of  verses  as  a  memorial,  and  asked  Milton's  aid.  This 
was  during  the  latter  part  of  the  poet's  residence  at  Horton,  and  three  years 
after  his  last  poem,  Comus  (1634).  That  these  three  years  had  been  spent 
in  silence  was  due  to  a  settled  purpose,  on  Milton's  part,  not  to  write  again 
till  he  had  arrived  at  that  '  inward  ripeness  '  which  should  enable  him  to 
attain  to  some  such  noble  art  as  long  afterward  found  expression  in  his  epics. 
It  is  accordingly  with  no  pretended  reluctance  that  he  breaks  this  resolution, 
and,  in  November,  1637,  contributes  this  elegy.  It  is  largely  in  the  pastoral 
vein,  and,  save  for  a  few  digressions,  is  a  lament  of  a  shepherd  for  his  fellow. 
Hence  "  Lycidas,"  a  name  for  a  shepherd,  frequently  used  by  Theocritus  and 
Virgil,  the  most  famous  pastoral  poets  of  classic  literature. 

1-14.  The  circumstances  under  which  the  poem  was  written,  i.  once 
more,  the  first  time  since  1634.  1-2.  laurels,  myrtles,  ivy,  plants  of 
Apollo  and  Bacchus,  associated  in  classic  thought  as  symbols  of  poetry  —  the 
materials  of  the  poet's  wreath.  3.  harsh  and  crude,  immature,  unripe,  not 
ready  to  fall  naturally.  4.  forced  fingers  nide,  '  forced  '  against  my  real 
desire,  and  '  rude,'  because  in  this  way  only  can  these  unripe  berries  be 
plucked.  6.  dear,  the  duty  is  painful,  yet  tender.  7.  Compels.  Justify 
the  singular  verb.  11.  lofty  rhyme,  rather  extravagant  praise.  King, 
though  he  wrote  verses  (fairly  good  ones  in  Latin),  was,  after  all,  no  poet. 
13.   welter  to.     Meaning?     14.    melodious  tear,  memorial  poem,  elegy. 

What  is  the  rhyme  and  metre  of  this  poem  as  a  whole?  Point  out 
some  hues  not  of  the  prevailing  metre  and  see  if  you  can  ascertain  the 
poetic  value  or  effect  of  the  deviations.  (On  Elegy,  see  Introduction, 
§  30,  5-) 

15-22.  The  address  to  the  Muses.  15.  sacred  well.  This  is  generally 
taken  to  mean  the  Muses'  birthplace,  —  the  Pierian  fount  at  the  foot  of 
Olympus.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  505.  18.  coy,  hesitating  and  unwilling. 
19.  Muse,  poet,  so  called  because  so  inspired.  20.  lucky,  well-omened, 
my  destined  urn,  the  urn  destined  to  hold  my  ashes,  when  I,  like  Lycidas, 
am  dead. 

23-36.  A  stanza  filled  with  references  to  Milton's  college  life,  expressed 
in  the  metaphor  of  the  pastoral.  In  this  connection  Masson  says,  "  The  hill 
is,  of  course,  Cambridge ;  the  joint  feeding  of  the  flocks  is  companionship  in 
study ;  the  rural  ditties  are  academic  iambics  and  elegiacs ;  and  old  Damoe- 


I 


LYCIDAS  613 


tas  is  probably  Dr.  Chappell  "  —  the  tutor  of  both  King  and  Milton.  In 
this  manner  suggest  a  meaning  for  '  fountain,'  *  shade,'  '  rill,'  '  high  lawns,' 
etc.  25.  lawns:  see  note  on  UAlleg.  (71).  26.  opening  eyelids.  Ex- 
plain the  figure.  27.  a-field.  Here  '  a  '  is  a  weakened  form  of  the  prepo- 
sition on.  28.  What  time,  equivalent  to  at  the  time  when,  thus  making 
'heard'  (27)  intransitive,  and  explaining  1.  28  as  an  adverbial  clause. 
28.  gray-fly.  This  is  the  trumpet  fly,  a  species  of  botfly,  which,  by  the 
motion  of  its  wings,  makes  a  droning  sound,  especially  in  hot  or  sultry 
weather.  Hence,  '  sultry  horn.'  29.  with,  at  the  time  of.  30.  the  star, 
Hesperus,  the  name  given  to  Venus  when  it  appears  as  the  evening  star. 
31.  Toward  .  .  .  wheel.  What  time  of  night  would  this  be?  33.  oaten 
flute,  the  reed  pipe  or  flute  of  the  shepherd ;  but  what  does  it  stand  for  here? 
34.  Satyrs  and  Fauns :  see  C/.  Z).  or  C/.  ilf.,  pp.  46,  61.  To  what  do  they 
here  refer?  36.  Damoetas,  a  common  name  in  classic  pastoral.  See 
Masson's  note  above. 

37-49.  Contrast  the  happiness  of  active  life  in  the  last  stanza  with  the 
heavy  sadness  of  this.  40.  gadding  vine.  Explain  the  adjective.  44.  joy- 
ous leaves.  Why  'joyous'?  45.  canker,  the  cankerworm.  46.  taint- 
worm,  a  small  red  spider.  47.  gay  wardrobe.  Why  'gay  wardrobe'? 
48.   white-thorn,  the  hawthorn. 

60-63.  Except  for  local  names  and  color,  this  passage  is  a  close  imitation 
of  the  first  idyl  of  Theocritus  and  of  the  tenth  eclogue  of  Virgil.  50.  Nymphs.* 
Were  these  wood  nymphs  {CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  45)  or  Muses  {CI.  D.  or  CI.  M., 
P-  37)?  52.  the  steep,  some  mountain  in  Wales,  where  the  Druids  are 
supposed  to  be  buried.  54.  Mona,  the  Roman  name  of  Anglesey,  a  steep, 
high,  and  thickly  wooded  island  off  the  coast  of  Wales.  Why  '  shaggy  '  ? 
55.  Deva,  the  river  Dee,  between  England  and  Wales.  Chester,  the  port 
from  which  King  sailed  (see  Milton's  argument  at  head  of  poem),  is  on  this 
river,  wizard  stream.  The  river  was  supposed  to  possess  supernatural 
qualities.  56.  Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream.  What  makes  this  line  so  effective ? 
fondly,  in  its  primary  meaning,  foolishly.  Notice  that  the  object  of 
'  dream  '  is  the  interrupted  speech  in  the  following  line.  58-63.  What  .  .  . 
shore.  He  shows  that  the  '  N5anphs  '  could  have  done  nothing,  had  they 
'  been  there,'  by  recalling  the  powerlessness  of  Calliope,  chief  of  the  Muses 
{CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  112,  165),  to  save  her  own  son  Orpheus  from  his  ter- 
rible death.  Read  the  story  of  this  death  in  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  167-168. 
58.  Orpheus.  Give  the  syntax.  61.  rout.  Who  composed  this  '  rout,' and 
why  did  they  make  a  '  roar  '?  63.  Lesbian  shore,  to  which,  according  to 
the  story,  the  head  of  the  bard  at  last  floated. 

64-84.  The  first  digression  of  the  poem.  Does  it  pay,  the  poet  asks, 
to  strive  after  and  attain  poetic  ideals,  when  the  applause  of  the  world  is  not 
for  such  effort,  but  rather  for  the  superficial  and  trivial?  Lines  65-66  refer 
to  the  true  poet,  but  11.  68-69  have  reference  to  the  more  popular,  second-rate 
lyric  writers  of  the  day.  It  is  but  fair  to  add  that  some  critics  believe  that 
Milton  is  making  a  contrast,  not  between  two  kinds  of  poets,  but  between  a 


6l4  NOTES   TO  MILTON 

life  of  poetic  effort  and  one  of  mere  pleasure.  67.  use,  are  accustomed  to 
do.  68-69.  Amaryllis  and  Neaera,  shepherdesses  of  the  classic  pastoral, 
the  dalliance  with  whom  typifies  a  life,  frivolous,  self-indulgent,  uninspired 
by  ideals.  70.  Fame.  .  .spur.  In  what  sense  is  fame  a  '  spur '  ?  71.  last 
infirmity.  After  all  other  infirmities  have  been  conquered  by  the  '  noble 
minds,'  a  love  of  fame  still  survives.  73-76.  But  .  .  .  life.  Explain.  Note 
that  Fate,  Atropos  (CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  38),  is  so  merciless  in  this  act  as  to 
seem  a  '  Fury.'  But  why  '  blind  '?  76-84.  But  .  .  .  meed.  Apollo,  god 
of  song  and  of  the  true  poet,  here  speaks.  76.  praise.  Give  the  syntax. 
77.  trembling,  a  participle,  modifying  the  substantive  idea  in  the  possessive 
'  my,'  i.e.  the  ears  of  me  trembling.  79.  glistering  foil,  a  plate  of  shining 
metal  placed  under  a  jewel  to  increase  its  brightness.  Explain  the  metaphor 
as  applied  to  fame.  81.  by,  here  a  very  important  word.  What  relation 
does  it  express  ? 

85-102.  Neptune  sends  his  herald,  Triton,  to  ascertain  where  lies  the 
responsibility  for  Lycidas's  death.  But  first  the  poet  acknowledges  to  the 
spirit  of  the  pastoral  that,  in  listening  to  the  voice  of  Phoebus,  he  has  for 
the  moment  put  aside  the  '  oat,'  or  pastoral  pipe.  The  address  to  'Arethuse ' 
{CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  117-120),  a  river  of  Ortygia,  an  island  off  Sicily,  sug- 
gests the  Greek  writer  of  pastorals, — Theocritus  of  Sicily ;  while  '  Mincius,' 
a  stream  of  northern  Italy,  calls  up  the  image  of  Virgil,  who  lived  upon  its 
fcanks.  87.  higher  mood,  than  the  pastoral  can  express.  90.  plea.  Ex- 
plain. 91.  felon.  Why  'felon  winds'?  93.  of  rugged  wings,  a  descrip- 
tive phrase.  Why  '  rugged '  ?  96.  JHippotades.  Note  the  Greek  patro- 
nymic for  iEolus,  king  of  the  winds  (son  of  Hippotas) :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M., 
pp.  39,  481.  99.  Panope,  one  of  the  fifty  Nereids  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p. 
55.     101.    Built  in  th'  eclipse,  etc.,  and  hence  ill-omened. 

103-107.  Really  a  separate  stanza,  although  not  so  printed  in  the  origi- 
nal. 103.  Camus,  the  presiding  deity  of  the  river  Cam,  and  hence  repre- 
senting Cambridge  [with  Cam+hridge,  com.'pdijt  Ox  (or  Usk,a.  river)  -^ford]. 
The  Cam  is  a  sluggish  river  filled  with  river  weeds  and  sedges.  104.  mantle, 
bonnet  :  see  note  on  VAlleg.  (62).  105.  figures  dim,  markings  on  the  sedge 
leaf.  106.  sanguine,  in  its  radical  sense  (from  Lat.  ^awgm'^,  blood) .  flower, 
the  hyacinth.  For  the  story  of  Hyacinthus,  and  the  markings  on  the  flower 
named  after  him,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  93-94.  woe,  the  Greek  word 
of  (alas),  inscribed  upon  the  petals  of  the  hyacinth,  and  expressing  the  sorrow 
of  Phoebus.  107.  pledge,  sometimes,  as  here,  means  offspring,  or  child, 
since  children  were  once  often  given  as  hostages  or  pledges.  See  the  intro- 
duction to  these  notes  for  King's  close  association  with  his  university. 

108-131.  This  second  digression  is  a  very  remarkable  passage.  The 
young  poet,  with  intense  scorn,  denounces  the  corruption  of  the  Church  and 
clergy  of  his  day,  and  foreshadows  the  spirit'of  the  Milton  who,  a  few  years 
later,  was  to  aid  the  Puritan  rebellion  with  his  stern,  controversial  prose. 
109.  pilot  .  .  .  lake  :  see  Matthew  iv,  18.  no.  massy  (massive)  keys, 
carried  by  St.  Peter  as  a  symbol  of  his  function  :  see  Matthew  xvi.  19. 


LYCIDAS  615 

114.  Enow,  enough,  bellies'  sake,  material  welfare.  115.  Creep,  in- 
trude, climb.  Discriminate  between  these  three  ways  of  invading  the  min- 
istry. For  a  very  full  and  careful  explanation  of  this  whole  passage,  see 
Ruskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies,  toward  the  end  of  the  first  third  of  the  essay. 
117.  scramble  .  .  .  feast,  press  forward  to  the  allotment  of  church  endow- 
ments. What  is  meant  by '  the  worthy  bidden  guest '?  119.  Blind  mouths. 
As  Ruskin  points  out,  this  striking  metaphor  indicates  the  very  antithesis  of  a 
true  clergyman.  These  men  are  '  blind,'  and  are  '  mouths  '  open  for  the 
feeding  ;  whereas  they  should  be  spiritual  overseers  —  bishops,  and  feeders 
of  their  flocks  —  pastors.  Look  up  the  derivation  of  bishop  and  of  pastor. 
1 19-120.  that  .  ,  .  sheep-hook.  What  does  the  clause  modify  ?  122. 
What  .  .  .  sped.  Explain  each  of  these  three  sentences.  123.  lean  and 
flashy  songs,  unsatisfying  and  insipid  sermons.  What  is  the  syntax  of 
'songs'?  124.  scrannel,  thin.  125.  hungry,  for  what?  126.  wind  and 
rank  mist  they  draw  (draw  in,  inhale),  the  vapid  and  unsound  teachings. 
127.  Rot  .  .  .  spread.  What  does  this  mean  ?  128.  grim  wolf.  By  the 
'  wolf,'  Milton  undoubtedly  meant  the  Church  of  Rome,  which  was  every 
day  gaining  new  converts  from  the  '  sheepfold  '  of  the  English  Church,  with 
no  one  to  object  ;  for  the  English  archbishop.  Laud,  is  said  to  have  leaned 
toward  Catholicism.  130.  two-handed  engine,  perhaps  more  discussed  than 
any  other  expression  in  Milton's  works.  '  Engine  '  in  his  time  was  used  as  in 
our  phrase  "  engine  of  death."  Accordingly,  it  has  been  taken  to  mean  an 
axe  (see  Matthew  iii.  10),  a  sword  (see  Revelation  i.  16),  the  two  houses  of 
Parliament  (the  word  '  engine  '  was  sometimes  used  in  Milton's  time  to 
mean  ParHament),  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament,  and  various  other 
things.  The  meaning  in  general  is,  however,  plain,  that  the  time  of  final 
retribution  is  at  hand. 

132-151.  Though  not  set  off  in  the  original  text,  these  lines  really  form 
the  next  stanzaic  division.  132-133.  Return  .  .  ,  streams,  another  ac- 
knowledgment of  £u digression  from  the  true  pastoral:  cf.  11.  85-87.  Alpheus, 
poetically  connected  with  Arethusa  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  ii7-i2o.n 
For  this  and  Sicilian  Muse,  see  note  on  11.  85-102.  dread  voice.  Whose 
was  the  voice  that  had  shrunk  his  streams,  and  what  does  the  latter  phrase 
mean  ?  136.  use,  obsolete  in  this  sense,  viz.,  to  have  one's  dwelling  place. 
137.  Of  shades,  etc.,  modifies  '  whispers.'  138.  swart  star,  the  Dog  Star 
which  makes  vegetation  brown  or  swarthy.  Explain  connection  here.  139. 
quaint  enamelled  eyes.  Justify  the  adjectives.  140.  honeyed  showers. 
Why  'honeyed'?  142-150.  Bring  .  .  .  tears.  In  this  passage  notice  the 
aptness  of  Milton's  adjectives.  142.  rathe,  an  old  positive,  of  which  rather 
(originally  meaning  earlier)  was  the  comparative.  151.  laureate  hearse. 
"  The  hearse  was  a  platform,  decorated  with  black  hangings,  and  containing 
an  effigy  of  the  deceased.  Laudatory  verses  ('  laureate  ')  were  attached 
to  it  with  pins,  wax,  or  paste"  (Jerram,  quoting  from  Stanley).  Look 
up  the  derivation  and  history  of  '  hearse,'  showing  its  growth  from  a  harrow 
to  a  carriage  for  the  dead. 


6l6  NOTES   TO  MILTON 

162-164.  156.  Hebrides  :  islands  off  the  west  coast  of  Scotland.  158. 
monstrous  world,  world  of  monsters.  159.  moist  vows,  tears  and  prayers. 
160.  fable  of  Bellerus  old,  the  land  where  a  Cornish  giant,  Bellenis,  was 
fabled  to  have  lived.  Milton  seems  to  have  coined  this  name  from  Bellerium, 
the  Latin  word  for  Land's  End,  Cornwall.  161.  great  vision  of  the  guarded 
mount.  Tradition  reports  that  the  archangel  Michael  was  once  seen  sitting 
on  and  guarding  a  Cornish  mountain.  Here  he  is  represented  with  his  face 
turned  toward  the  strongholds  of  Namancos  and  Bayona,  situated  in  north- 
western Spain,  opposite  Land's  End.  The  poet  begs  the  archangel  to  with- 
draw his  eyes  from  Spain  and  fix  them  upon  the  watery  grave  of  Lycidas. 

164.  dolphins.     For  their  S5mipathy  with  a  poet,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  454, 
165-185.     A  burst  of  triumph,  as  the  poet  realizes  that,  after  all,  the 

grave  has  no  real  sting.  Like  the  '  day  star,'  or  sun,  which  seems  to  sink 
into  the  ocean,  this  sinking  is  only  to  be  followed  by  a  glorious  resurrection. 

165.  shepherds.  Who  is  meant  ?  166.  your  sorrow.  Explain.  170.  new- 
spangled  ore.  Explain  this  with  reference  to  the  sun.  173.  might  of  Him, 
etc.:  see  Matthew  xiv.  25.  174-175.  Where  .  .  .  laves.  Put  into  prose 
order,  noting  that  the  clause  modifies  mounted.  175.  nectar  pure.  Why 
with  'nectar'?  176.  unexpressive  (inexpressible)  nuptial  song  :  see  Rev- 
elation ^dx.  6-g.  177.  kingdoms  meek.  Explain  the  adjective.  181.  wipe 
the  tears.  Isaiah  xxv.  8  ;  Revelation  vii.  7.  183.  Genius  of  the  shore. 
According  to  an  ancient  belief  the  spirit  of  any  one  who  was  drowned  would 
thereafter  guard  the  place  of  his  death  as  a  protecting  '  genius.'  Note  here 
and  throughout  the  poem  the  freedom  with  which  Milton  turns  from  Chris- 
tian to  pagan  imagery. 

186-193.  Observe  the  calm  repose  of  these  last  lines  —  the  same  placid- 
ity that  often  marks  the  close  of  a  stirring  epic.  186.  uncouth.  What  is 
the  meaning  here  ?  See  UAlleg.  (5)  and  note.  Who  is  this  '  uncouth 
swain  '  ?  186-191.  Thus  .  .  .  bay.  He  had  been  singing  this  pastoral 
song  all  day.  i88.  quills,  reeds,  or  oaten  pipes  of  the  shepherd.  Their 
stops  are  the  vent-holes  over  which  the  fingers  of  the  musician  play.  But 
why  '  tender '  ?  189.  Doric.  Doric  was  the  rural  dialect  used  by  Theocri- 
tus and  other  Greek  writers  of  pastoral  poetry.  190.  stretched  out  all  the 
hills.  Explain  this  line.  192.  twitched.  We  can  imagine  the  shepherd 
drawing  his  blue  mantle  around  *him  as  he  feels  the  sudden  chill  of  evening. 
193.  To-morrow  .  .  .  new.  What  meaning  may  this  line  have  in  reference  to 
Milton's  life  ?     Indicate  best  lines  in  this  poem.     (See  Introduction,  §  34.) 

Comment  upon  the  metre  and  the  tone-qualities  of  11.  1-14  ;  upon  the 
poetic  figures  of  11.  103-131,  and  upon  the  charms  of  sound-sequence  in  the 
stanza  of  11. 186-193.    (See  Introduction,  §§  8 ;  18 ;  20,  3 ;  21.) 

PARADISE  lost 

The  Cavalier  versifier,  Edmund  Waller,  said  of  his  contemporary,  the 
great  Puritan  poet  :  "  The  old  blind  poet  hath  pubUshed  a  tedious  poem  on 


PARADISE  LOST  617 

the  Fall  of  Man.  If  its  length  be  not  considered  a  merit,  it  hath  no  other." 
To-day  —  in  spite  of  its  theme,  which  repels  such  smug  moderns  as  have 
neither  historic  sense  nor  reverence  for  the  symbols  of  sacred  tradition 
and  the  imaginative  lore  of  the  ages  ;  in  spite  of  its  idea  of  the  relation  of 
God  to  man,  which  no  longer  satisfies  us  ;  in  spite  of  its  occasional  and 
tiresome  theological  arguments,  which  are  antiquated  —  we  regard  Paradise 
Lost  as  one  of  the  greatest  poems  of  all  time,  and  rank  its  author  with  the 
supreme  epic  poets,  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante.  But  to  appreciate  the 
poem  the  reader  must  bring  something  to  the  reading,  his  eye  must  bring 
something  to  the  seeing.  A  recent  critic.  Professor  Dixon,  writes  :  "  Bring 
nothing  to  Milton  and  you  take  nothing  from  him.  Bring  to  him  some 
knowledge  of  classical  poetry,  some  imaginative  faculty,  above  all  bring  to 
him  that  rare  gift,  an  ear  not  for  the  jingles  but  for  the  subtler  harmonies 
of  verse,  and  you  share  the  transport  of  Landor  —  '  After  I  have  been  reading 
Paradise  Lost  I  can  take  up  no  other  poet  with  satisfaction.  I  seem  to  have 
left  the  music  of  Handel  for  the  music  of  the  streets,  or  at  best  for  drums  and 
fifes  ....  Averse  as  I  am  to  everything  relating  to  theology,  and  espe- 
cially the  view  of  it  thrown  open  by  this  poem,  I  recur  to  it  incessantly 
as  the  noblest  specimen  in  the  world  of  eloquence,  harmony,  and  genius.'  " 

The  abiding  glory  of  the  poem  is  indeed  its  diction,  its  imagery,  and, 
above  all,  its  music.  In  diction  it  is  always  noble  and  elevated,  never  mean 
or  commonplace,  seldom  fantastic.  The  greatness  and  flawless  purity  of 
Milton's  phrases,  even  the  most  colorful  and  sonorous  of  them,  may  easily 
be  appreciated  if  one  reads  aloud  passages  from  Paradise  Lost  and  then  in 
succession  passages  from  other  poems  in  this  volume.  The  stately  splendor 
of  his  style  is  much  assisted  by  words  of  Latin  derivation,  as  is  pointed  out 
in  the  notes  below.  In  imagery  Milton  inclines  always  to  the  sublime, 
though  of  the  simple  beauties  of  field  and  hedgerow  he  makes  vivid,  accurate, 
and  delicate  use.  But  the  procession  of  images  in  his  epics  is  from  the  earth 
to  the  sun  and  through  the  vast  reaches  of  the  starry  firmament. 

To  his  superb  music  another  marvellous  master  of  English  rhythm, 
Tennyson,  has  alluded  as  follows : 

"  O  mighty-mouthed  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skilled  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages ; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starred  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories. 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset !  " 

By  way  of  contrast,  Tennyson  speaks  of  his  own  verse  as  "  the  brooks  of 
Eden  mazily  murmuring."  Wordsworth,  also,  has  paid  tribute  to  Milton's 
lyre.     In  a  sonnet,  which  is  printed  elsewhere  in  this  book,  he  says  : 

"  Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea." 


6l8  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

Lowell  compares  the  greater  lines  of  Paradise  Lost  to  the  "  multitudinous 
roll  of  thunder  "  and  William  Watson  has  the  phrase,  "  Milton's  keen, 
translunar  music."  To  discover  how  these  great  effects  are  produced  — 
how  they  depend  in  part  upon  vowel  and  consonant  sequences,  open  and 
closed  syllables,  quantity,  and  assonance,  constant  variation  in  the  posi- 
tion of  the  caesural  pause,  and  masterly  deviation  from  the  metrical 
norm  of  five  iambic  feet  to  the  line  —  may  prove  interesting  if  the  analysis 
is  made  a  living  part  of  one's  pleasure  in  the  music  of  the  verse  and  if  it  is 
extended  by  way  of  experiment  and  comparison  to  the  poems  of  other 
authors  in  this  volume.  (For  the  epic  metre,  blank  verse,  see  Introduc- 
tion, §  19;  for  the  caesura,  §  20,  2  ;  for  the  Epic,  §  31,  i.) 

Ever  since  his  thirty-first  year,  after  his  return  from  Italy  in  1639, 
Milton  had  planned  to  write  a  great  poem  which  posterity  should  not  will- 
ingly let  die.  He  profoundly  believed  that  he  was  destined  to  write  such 
a  poem  and  he  definitely  set  about  to  prepare  himself  for  the  high  task. 
"  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he  who  would  not  be  frustrate  of 
his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a 
true  poem  ;  that  is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  the  best  and  honorablest 
things."  He  asserted  that  such  a  work  was  "  not  to  be  raised  from  the  heat 
of  youth  or  the  vapors  of  wine,  like  that  which  flows  at  waste  from  the  pen 
of  some  vulgar  amorist,  or  the  trencher-fury  of  a  riming  parasite  [note  his 
compliment  to  the  Cavalier  poets  !]  nor  to  be  obtained  by  the  invocation 
of  Dame  Memory  and  her  Siren  daughters,  but  by  devout  prayer  to  that 
eternal  Spirit  who  can  enrich  with  all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends 
out  his  Seraphim  with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar  to  touch  and  purify  the 
lips  of  whom  he  pleases.  To  this  must  be  added  industriously  select  read- 
ing, steady  observation,  insight  into  all  seemly  and  generous  arts  and  affairs." 
As  a  part  of  this  preparation  he  reviewed  many  subjects  for  the  poem  — 
about  one  hundred  in  all  ;  for  a  time  he  had  thought  of  writing  on  British 
history,  especially  King  Arthur.  His  plans  were  interrupted  by  the  Civil 
War  and  the  long  and  arduous  services  he  rendered  to  his  party  in  the 
conflict.  But  he  never  forgot  his  supreme  ambition.  At  last,  in  1658, 
nearly  twenty  years  after  he  had  conceived  the  purpose,  when  he  was  fifty 
years  old  and  after  he  had  been  blind  for  five  or  six  years,  he  resumed  work 
on  his  heart's  desire,  and  completed  the  poem  in  1663  or  1665.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  1667. 

Of  the  subject  and  general  plan  of  the  epic,  of  its  plot  and  the  division 
of  the  action  into  twelve  books,  there  is  not  room  here  to  speak  adequately. 
Suflace  it  to  say  that  the  subject  is  "  Man's  first  disobedience  "  of  God's 
command  and  the  consequent  expulsion  from  Eden  ;  that  the  underlying 
motive  of  the  story  is  to  "  assert  Eternal  Providence  and  justify  the  ways 
of  God  to  men."  With  the  central  plot  of  the  sin  and  punishment  of  Adam 
and  Eve  two  separate  strands  of  event  are  intricately  interwoven,  the  one 
antecedent  in  time,  the  other  subsequent.  They  are  the  rebellion  of  Satan 
and  his  followers,  and  Christ's  redemption  of  man  from  sin  with  the  foiling 


PARADISE  LOST  619 

thereby  of  Satan's  scheme  for  revenge.  Both  of  these  stories  are  narrated* 
to  Adam,  the  former,  as  history,  by  Raphael,  the  latter,  as  prophecy,  by 
Michael.  By  this  device  of  a  narrative  within  a  narrative  (copied  from 
Virgil  and  Homer)  a  greater  unity  and  a  smaller  duration  of  time  are  se- 
cured to  the  action  of  the  poem.  —  In  the  first  Book,  from  which  our  selec- 
tions have  been  made,  after  an  invocation  of  the  muse  that  inspired  Moses 
and  a  statement  of  the  subject  and  purpose  of  the  poem  (11.  1-26),  the  early 
stages  of  Satan's  rebellion  are  concisely  outlined  (11.  27-49  ;  later  narrated 
in  detail  by  Raphael,  Book  VI) ;  and  from  a  point  well  toward  the  end  of 
Book  I  the  story  of  Satan  is  told  at  length  :  how,  cast  down  from  Heaven 
upon  the  lake  of  eternal  fire,  he  and  his  followers  planned  in  revenge  to 
betray  God's  latest  creature,  Man,  and  to  set  up  a  dominion  of  wickedness. 
This  story  is  carried  through  the  second  Book.  Adam  and  Eve  are  first 
introduced  in  Book  IV,  11.  288-311. 

The  characters  of  the  poem  are  not  all  drawn  with  equal  success.  There 
are  only  two  human  beings  in  the  10,565  lines  of  the  work,  and  they  are  only 
half-human.  Adam  and  Eve  are  so  formal,  philosophical,  and  *  disser- 
tations '  that  they  can  hardly  be  told  apart.  Adam  expects  colorless 
obedience,  subserviency,  from  his  wife,  and  he  gets  it.  Milton's  God, 
whom  Eve  calls  "  our  Great  Forbidder,"  also  demands  obedience,  rather 
than  love  ;  he  is  eternal,  omnipotent,  stern,  even  harsh,  and  quite  un- 
sympathetic. The  qualities  of  love,  compassion,  and  mercy  are  given  to 
the  Son  rather  than  to  the  Father.  The  great  character  is  Satan.  "  The 
ruined  archangel  is  the  most  tremendous  conception  in  the  compass  of 
poetry  ;  no  longer  the  petty  mischief-maker,  the  homed  enchanter,  of  the 
middle-age,  but  a  giant  and  a  hero,  whose  eyes  are  like  eclipsed  suns,  whose 
cheeks  are  thunder-scarred,  whose  wings  are  as  two  black  forests  ;  armed 
with  a  shield  whose  circumference  is  the  orb  of  the  moon,  with  a  spear  in 
comparison  with  which  the  tallest  pine  were  but  a  wand  ;  doubly  armed 
by  pride,  fury,  and  despair  ;  brave  and  faithful  to  his  troops,  touched  with 
pity  for  his  innocent  victuns,  pleading  necessity  for  his  design,  actuated 
less  by  pure  mahce  than  by  ambition  and  resentment."  Inevitably  Satan 
is  the  hero  of  the  poem. 

1-26.  Invocation,  Subject,  Purpose.  2.  tree  :  see  Genesis  ii.  9,  17,  and 
chap,  iii,  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  Genesis  iii.  22-24 
shows  that  it  was  not  the  tree  of  life,  mortal,  deadly,  bringing  death. 
Note  the  tautology  in  the  next  line.  But  if  Milton  means  taste  by  a  mortal, 
there  is  no  repetition  of  thought.  4.  Eden  :  perhaps  the  Hebrew  word 
meaning  '  delight '  ;  possibly  a  geographical  term.  Milton  uses  Paradise 
and  Eden  interchangeably,  as  is  usual  except  in  the  Bible  itself.  See  '  Para- 
dise '  in  Biblical  Diet,  one  greater  Man,  the  Christ  ;  cf.  Romans  v.  19. 
6-10.  Heavenly  Muse  .  .  .  Chaos  :  referring  to  God's  appearance  to  the 
shepherd  Moses,  on  Sinai,  also  called  Horeb,  and  attributing  to  Moses  the 
inspired  composition  of  the  story  of  creation,  in  Genesis  i.  See  Exodus  iii., 
xix.     10.   Sion,  Zion,  a  hill  of  Jerusalem,  identified  by  some  Biblical  passages 


620  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

as  the  mount  on  which  the  Temple  stood,  the  dwelling  place  of  God.  ii. 
Siloa.  The  pool  of  Siloam,  to  the  southeast  of  the  Upper  City  of  Jerusalem, 
below  Zion,  was  fed  by  a  stream  from  the  Gihon,  or  Virgin's  Fountain,  a 
little  way  to  the  north  ;  cf.  Isaiah  viii.  6,  and  see  Biblical  Diet.  12.  Fast, 
close,  oracle  of  God,  the  Temple.  14.  middle,  interpreted  as  mean, 
mediocre  ;  also  as  through  the  middle  air,  in  contrast  to  the  ether  above. 
The  latter  is  the  preferable  interpretation  ;  it  is  supported  by  a  similar 
use  of  '  middle  '  in  1.  516.  15.  Aonian  mount  :  Helicon,  the  Muses'  moun- 
tain, in  Bceotia  ;  see  CI.  M.,  p.  96.  pursues,  treats  of.  17-22,  the 
spirit  of  God  mentioned  in  Genesis  i.  2  ;  the  word  in  that  verse  which 
fs  translated  '  moved  '  ("  the  spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the 
waters  ")  signifies  '  brooding  upon,'  as  of  a  bird,  —  hence  the  figure  in  1.  21. 
25.  assert,  vindicate.  Providence:  the  care  and  guardianship  of  God  over 
His  creatures  ;  God  supplements  His  omnipotence  with  His  providence. 

44-71.  Milton  begins  in  the  middle  of  the  story  ;  so  also  do  Homer 
and  Virgil.  Why  ?  Cf.  introduction  to  these  notes.  45-48.  For  the 
belief  in  the  fall  of  the  angels  from  Heaven  see.  Luke  x.  17-18  ;  //  Peter  ii. 
4  ;  Jiide  vi ;  for  the  war  in  Heaven,  Isaiah  xiv.  4-23  ;  Revelation  xii.  1-9 
("  each  furnishes  details,  but  neither  refers  to  such  a  war  as  Milton  had  in 
mind  ").  45.  Note  the  superb  energy  of  the  line  and  the  picture,  ethereal. 
See  note  on  1.  14,  above.  46.  ruin,  in  the  radical  sense  of  a  violent  fall 
(Latin  ruere,  to  rush  down).  56.  baleful,  boding  evil.  See  Did.  58. 
obdurate.  Accent  on  second  syllable,  where  it  originally,  and  properly, 
fell.  59.  ken  :  intransitive,  to  look  around,  i.e.  as  far  as  angels  are  able 
to  see.  —  Note,  as  typical,  the  constant  shifting  of  the  csesural  pause  in  the 
following  ten  lines  :  thus,  to  use  Milton's  own  words,  the  sense  "  is  va- 
riously drawn  out  from  one  verse  to  another."  By  this  expression  he  also 
refers  to  the  musical  effect  of  run-on  lines.  What  is  his  practice  in  this 
respect  ?  What  effect  would  rhymes  give  to  Milton's  verse  ?  In  a  prefatory 
note  to  Paradise  Lost,  the  poet  maintained  that  rhyme  "is  no  necessary 
adjunct  or  true  ornament  of  poem  or  good  verse,  in  longer  works  especially, 
but  [is]  the  invention  of  a  barbarous  age,  to  set  off  wretched  matter  and 
lame  metre."  W^hat  is  your  criticism  of  this  dictum  ?  Illustrate  by 
other  poems  in  this  volume.  68.  urges.  In  the  radical  sense  of  drives, 
presses  on.  71  ff.  Beelzebub,  a  god  of  the  Philistines  ;  Milton  uses  the 
name  for  Satan's  chief  lieutenant. 

192-263.  197-200  :  for  the  Titans  and  the  earth-born  Giants,  for 
Typhon  and  Briareos,  see  CI.  M.,  pp.  4-8,  354.  201.  Leviathan  :  a  mytho- 
logical monster  ;  see  Psalms  Ixxiv.  14  ;  Isaiah  xxvii.  i  ;  in  Job  xli.  the  term 
is  applied  to  the  crocodile.  202  :  note  the  anapaest.  226.  incumbent, 
lying.     244.    change,  exchange.     257.    all  but,  only. 

283-313.  In  this  section  consider  the  effect  of  the  many  words  of  Latin 
derivation  ;  cf.  below,  11.  622  ff.,  and  above,  45  ff.  288.  optic  glass,  tele- 
scope. Tuscan,  adjective,  from  Tuscany,  a  division  of  Italy,  in  which  is 
included  Florence.    The  telescope  had  been  developed  by  the  Florentine, 


PARADISE  LOST  621 

Galileo,  who  is  here  called  the  Tuscan  artist.  Milton  had  seen  him  in  Italy. 
289,  290.  Fesole,  Valdarno,  near  Florence.  294.  ammiral,  admiral  ;  here 
used  for  the  ship  which  carries  the  admiral,  i.e.  the  biggest  ship.  296. 
marie,  soft,  clayey  soil.  298.  How  does  this  line  vary  from  the  prosodical 
norm  ?  What  other  lines  in  this  section  contain  variations  ?  What  is  the 
effect  of  the  changes  in  each  case  ?  Milton  nearly  always  has  five  accents 
to  the  line,  but  he  makes  use  of  many  substitutions  :  trochees,  spondees, 
pyrrhics,  anapaests,  dactyls,  amphibrachs,  and  tribrachs.  303.  Vallombrosa, 
near  Florence.  Etruria,  the  ancient  name  for  Tuscany.  Note  in  this 
section  Milton's  use  of  melliJQiuous  and  romantic  proper  names  to  heighten 
the  effect  of  his  descriptions  ;  cf.  below,  11.  577-587,  717-721.  305.  Orion  : 
storms  were  supposed  to  accompany  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  constella- 
tion Orion  ;  see  CI.  M.,  pp.  170,  122-123.  307-  Busiris  :  a  mythical  king 
of  Egypt.  Milton,  following  other  writers,  gives  this  name  to  the  Pharaoh 
who  was  drowned  in  the  Red  Sea.  See  Exodus  xiv.  Memphian,  from 
Memphis,  a  famous  city  of  ancient  Egypt  ;  here  =  Egyptian.  309.  Goshen : 
the  district  in  Lower  Egypt  occupied  by  the  Israelites  before  the  Exodus. 

567-604.  568.  traverse,  across.  572.  his.  Probably  for  its.  "  Mil- 
ton uses  its  but  three  times  (see  1.  254,  above);  the  word  was  just  coming 
into  use,  but  was  wholly  avoided  in  King  James's  Bible,  and  occurs  very 
rarely  in  Shakespeare."  573.  since  created  man,  since  man  was  created. 
575.  small  infantry  :  the  Pygmies,  against  whom  the  cranes  made  war. 
See  Iliad,  iii,  5  and  CI.  M.,  p.  519.  577.  Phlegra  :  a  peninsula  in  Mace- 
donia, where  the  Giants  were  defeated  by  the  Gods  ;  the  spot  had  probably 
been  volcanic  at  an  early  period.  See  CI.  M.,  p.  7  ;  cf.  11.  197-200,  above. 
578.  Thebes  and  Ilium  :  referring  to  the  two  greatest  wars  of  Greek  tra- 
dition ;  see  CI.  M.,  pp.  265-268,  277-317.  580.  Uther's  son.  King  Arthur. 
581.  Armoric,  Breton.  583-586  :  the  references  are  to  sites  of  battles 
celebrated  in  medieval  romance.  588.  observed,  obeyed.  589-604  : 
consider  this  majestic  portrayal  of  Satan  and  add  to  it  from  other  lines  in 
the  selection.  What  is  Milton's  method  Of  description  ?  of  characterization  ? 
Why  did  Milton  lavish  all  this  dusky  splendor  upon  Satan  ?  592.  her,  its. 
Cf.  note  on  1.  572  ;  for  similar  use  of  the  feminine  pronoun  see  Psalms 
cxxxvii.  5.  597.  disastrous  :  the  eclipse  of  the  sun  was  superstitiously  re- 
garded as  threatening  disaster.     603.   considerate,  considering,  plotting. 

622-669.  624.  event,  outcome.  636.  counsels  different,  contrary, 
divided  counsels.  644.  provoke,  call  forth  ;  see  Diet.  646.  work  :  used 
as  transitive  verb,  —  'to  accomplish.'  647.  no  less.  That  he  may  dis- 
cover it  no  less  than  (as  well  as)  we  have.  659.  cover  :  object  of  this  verb  ? 
662.  understood,  carried  on  by  secret  understanding.  —  What  passions  are 
evident  in  Satan's  speech  ?  Do  they  render  him  ignoble  ?  Could  God's 
adversary  be  painted  as  utterly  ignoble  ? 

710-798.  Pandemonium  :  (pan,  all  -}-  demon),  the  place  of  all  demons  ; 
the  term  was  invented  by  Milton  as  a  proper  name,  but  has  come  to  be  used 
as  a  general  term  for  any  disorderly  and  noisy  place  or  assemblage,  or  for 


622  NOTES  TO  MILTON 

a  loud,  confused  noise.  710-716  :  see  Diet,  for  the  architectural  terms. 
718.  Alcairo,  Cairo.  720.  Belus  :  the  Assyrian  god  Baal.  Serapis  :  an 
Egyptian  divinity.  724.  folds.  In  the  radical  sense  of  the  leaves  or  folds 
of  a  door.  728.  cresset,  a  cup  of  incombustible  material,  for  holding  blazing 
matter  to  afford  light.  797.  frequent,  crowded  ;  cf.  the  Latin  original. 
798.   consult,  consultation. 

Book  II.  1-9.  i.  The  line  opens  with  a  trochee  instead  of  an  iamb  ; 
what  is  the  effect  of  this  variation  ?  2.  Ormus  :  an  ancient  and  medieval 
city  of  Persia,  once  noted  for  its  wealth. 

SONNETS 

For  general  remarks  on  the  sonnet  as  a  verse  form,  see  the  Introduction 
to  this  book,  §§  26;3o,  6;  also  the  account  of  the  sixteenth-century  pre- 
Elizabethan  era  ;  also  the  .notes  on  Wordsworth's  Sonnets.  Milton  wrote 
in  all  twenty-three  sonnets,  five  in  Italian  and  eighteen  in  English.  Of  his 
English  sonnets  the  first  two  were  written  near  the  end  of  his  college  life, 
in  about  his  twenty-third  year  ;  the  other  sixteen,  composed  between  1642 
and  1658,  were  the  only  poems  he  wrote  during  the  long  twenty-year  period 
of  his  fierce  political  strife  in  behalf  of  the  commonwealth.  Of  all  his 
poems,  these  sonnets  are  the  most  intensely  personal. 

Though  the  sonnet  is  a  form  of  verse  derived  from  the  Italian,  the  early 
English  sonneteers,  including  Shakespeare  himself,  did  not  pretend  to  follow 
the  Italian  form.  Milton  observes  the  pause  between  octave  and  sestet, 
usual  in  the  strict  Italian  form,  in  only  seven  of  his  eighteen  English  sonnets. 
Another  important  rule  of  the  Italian  sonnet,  viz.,  that  the  last  two  lines 
must  not  rhyme,  he  breaks  in  only  one  instance.  He  follows  closely  the 
most  common  Italian  rhyme  systems  of  the  sestet,  c-d  c-d  c-d  and  c-d-e  c-d-e, 
having  in  his  eighteen  English  sonnets  seven  of  the  former  and  five  of  the 
latter  system.  The  poet  himself  constantly  refers  to  his  sonnets  as  poems 
in  the  "  Petrarchian  stanza." 

Sonnet  II 

Milton  took  his  master's  degree  at  Cambridge,  and  severed  his  connection 
with  the  University  in  July,  1632.  There  has  been  found  among  his  manu- 
scripts a  letter  to  some  unknown  friend,  undated,  but  probably  written  not 
long  after  his  graduation,  in  which  he  replies  at  some  length  to  the  charge 
that  he  was  wasting  his  time  in  aimless  study,  when  he  should  be  devoting 
himself  to  the  Church  or  engaging  in  some  other  active  pursuit.  After  stat- 
ing decisively  that  he  has  given  over  all  idea  of  entering  the  ministry,  he 
concludes,  "  Yet,  that  you  may  see  that  I  am  something  suspicious  of  my- 
self, and  do  take  notice  of  a  certain  belatedness  in  me,  I  am  the  bolder  to 
send  you  some  of  my  nightward  thoughts  some  while  since,  because  they 
come  in  not  altogether  unfitly,  made  up  in  a  Petrarchian  stanza  which  I  told 
you  of."    The  "  Petrarchian  stanza,"  or  sonnet,  which  thereupon  follows,  has 


SONNETS.  623 

been  since  entitled,  On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-three.  As  its 
title  indicates,  the  sonnet  was  written  on  or  alsout  the  poet's  twenty-third 
birthday,  i.e.  December,  1631. 

I.  subtle  thief.  Why  is  '  time '  called  a  '  subtle  thief  '  ?  5.  semblance. 
Milton's  delicate  youthful  beauty  was  such  that  he  was  nicknamed  "  the 
Lady  of  Christ's  College."  7.  And  .  .  .  appear.  This  line  is  probably 
coordinate  with  the  preceding  line,  both  lines  being  in  apposition  with 
*  truth.'  Owing  to  my  youthful  appearance,  people  do  not  realize  that  I  am 
so  old,  or  that  I  am  so  tardy  in  development.  8.  timely-happy  spirits 
endu'th,  i.e.  that  endows  (modern  form  of  endue)  men  more  fortunate  as 
regards  early  maturity.  9.  it,  inward  ripeness.  10  still,  ever,  even, 
in  proportion  to,  conforming  itself.  13.  All  is.  Does  this  mean,  Every- 
thing is  now  thus  proportioned  ;  or.  All  that  concerns  me  is  whether,  etc.  ; 
or  is  there  some  other  interpretation  ? 

Sonnet  XVI 

Though  this  sonnet  was  written  in  1652,  owing  to  the  nature  of  some  of 
its  lines  it  was  not  printed  untU  1694,  when  allusions  to  pre-restoration 
pontics  were  more  tolerantly  received  than  during  the  post-restoration  period 
of  Milton's  life.  Certain  of  the  independent  ministry  had  petitioned  a  par- 
liamentary committee  for  state  support  of  the  clergy  and  for  other  special 
privileges.  MUton  saw  cleaxly  that  this  would  be  only  a  first  step  toward 
the  overthrow  of  reUgious  Hberty  ;  and,  as  Masson  points  out,  the  sonnet  "  is 
a  call  to  Cromwell  to  save  England  from  a  mercenary  ministry  of  any  denomi- 
nation, or  a  new  ecclesiastical  tyranny  of  any  form." 

1-4.  Put  into  prose  order.  Cromwell  had  to  make  his  way  not  only 
against  the  enemy  in  the  field,  but  also  against  detractors  in  his  own  party. 
5.  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud.  "  This  is  an  unmistakable  allusion  to 
Charles  I,  expressed  in  Biblical  language.  Cf.  Genesis  xlLx.  8 "  (Bell). 
Whether  or  not  this  is  true,  the  downfall  of  the  Royalist  cause  is  at  least 
referred  to.  7.  Darwen  stream,  where  Cromwell  routed  the  Scots  in  1648. 
8.  Dtmbar  field,  where  the  Scots,  in  1650,  were  again  defeated  by  the  Pro- 
tector. 9.  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.  In  the  battle  of  Worcester,  165 1, 
just  one  year  after  Dunbar,  the  Scots  were  finally  overthrown.  Hence  the 
laureate,  or  laurel,  a  wreath,  crowning  Cromwell's  final  victory.  11.  new 
foes,  i.e.  such  foes  as  the  independent  clergy  mentioned  above,  who  were 
scheming  for  the  establishment  of  a  state  Church,  and  were  thus  inimical  to 
religious  freedom.  13-14.  Help  .  .  .  maw.  With  these  lines  cf.  Lye, 
(113-118)- 

Sonnet  XXI 

Milton  became  totally  blind  in  1652.  Though  it  would  seem  probable 
that  this,  his  first  reference  in  poetry  to  his  aflfliction,  was  written  not  long 
after  that  date,  there  are  reasons  for  placing  it  as  late  as  1655.    In  Masson's 


624  NOTES  TO  DRY  DEN 

judgment  it  may  have  been  written  any  time  between  these  two  dates.    The 
title  On  His  Blindness  has  been  added  since  Milton's  time. 

2.  Ere  half  my  days.  Just  one-third  of  Milton's  ''  days  '  were  spent  in 
blindness.  3.  And  that  one  talent.  Supply  '  how  '  from  1.  i,  making  the 
clause  the  object  of  '  consider.*  Look  up  the  parable  of  the  talents  in  Mat- 
thew XXV.  14-30,  and  show  how  Milton  is  applying  the  story  to  himself. 
6.  lest  He  returning  chide,  still  a  reference  to  the  parable.  7.  light  :  see 
noteon  UAlleg.  (62).  8.  fondly,  foolishly.  12.  thousands,  i.e.  of  heavenly 
messengers,  or  angels. 

DRYDEN 

Alexander's  feast 

St.  Cecilia,  a  patron  saint  of  music,  is  supposed  to  have  lived  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  third  century,  having  suffered  martyrdom  about  2  20  a.d.  Accord- 
ing to  the  legends  which  have  sprung  up  about  her,  she  was  virtuous,  devout, 
beloved  of  the  angels,  inspired  by  and  inspirer  of  music.  At  some  time 
and  in  some  way  —  just  when  or  how  is  uncertain  —  she  had  grown  to 
be  regarded  as  music's  patron  saint,  and  hence,  during  a  part  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries,  one  day  of  each  year  was  set  aside  by 
musicians  and  music  lovers  to  do  homage  to  her  memory.  How  the  tradition 
arose  that  St.  Cecilia  invented  the  organ  is  a  matter  of  conjecture,  as  are  also 
the  actual  facts  concerning  its  invention.  The  legend  of  St.  Cecilia  was 
first  told  in  English  by  Chaucer  in  his  Second  Nun's  Tale. 

Alexander's  Feast,  probably  the  finest  of  all  the  odes  written  for  the 
St.  CeciUa  festivals,  was  composed  in  1697,  the  poet  being  then  in  his  sixty- 
eighth  year.  Lord  Bolingbroke  (the  hfelong  friend  of  Pope,  and  the 
"  Mr.  St.  John  "  of  Tha.ckera,y's  Henry  Esmond)  has  recorded  a  remark  made 
to  hun  by  Dryden:  "  I  have  been  up  all  night.  My  musical  friends  made  me 
promise  to  write  them  an  ode  for  their  Feast  of  St.  Ceciha,  and  I  was  so 
struck  with  the  subject  which  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  not  leave  it  till  I 
had  completed  it.  Here  it  is,  finished  at  one  sitting."  Although  the  poet 
afterward  spent  a  week  or  two  in  revising  this  first  draft,  it  is  probable  that  it 
was  not  altered  to  any  considerable  extent.  Dryden  himself  was  much 
pleased  with  his  effort,  and  is  reported  to  have  boasted  that  "  a  finer  ode  had 
never  yet  been  written  and  never  would  be."  His  earlier  poem  on  the  same 
subject,  A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  (1687),  was  also  a  noteworthy  pro- 
duction, although  much  shorter  and  less  ambitious  than  Alexander's  Feast. 

The  most  characteristic  quality  of  this  poem  is  found  in  its  onomatopoetic 
effects  both  in  word-sounds  and  in  metre.  It  has  been  said  of  Dryden  that 
metre,  far  from  being  a  hindrance  to  him,  was  a  source  of  positive  freedom  ; 
and  nowhere  is  this  exemplified  better  than  in  Aleocander's  Feast.  While 
reading  the  poem,  the  student  should  note,  for  each  stanza,  three  things  : 
(i)  the  kind  of  music  Timotheus  is  playing  ;  (2)  the  effect  of  the  music  on 
Alexander  ;  and  (3)  the  way  in  which  the  poet,  by  word-sounds  and  metrical 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  625 

effects,  pictures  objectively  the  sound  of  the  music,  and  subjectively  and  more 
subtly  the  resulting  mood  of  the  great  conqueror.  See  Introduction, 
§  21,  for  the  sound-quaUties  of  verse,  and  §§  25 ;  30,  2  for  the  Ode. 

Stanza  I.  1-2.  Persia  .  .  .  son.  '  Philip's  warlike  son,' Alexander  the 
Great,  overthrew  Darius  and  thus  conquered  Persia  in  331  B.C.  3-5.  Aloft 
...  throne.  By  pronouncing  these  lines  slowly  and  impressively,  the  reader 
catches  the  effect  the  poet  wishes  to  produce,  —  the  dignified  majesty  and 
self-important  contentment  of  the  victor.  6-1 1.  His  .  .  .  pride.  These 
longer  lines,  in  contrast  with  the  three  preceding,  resume  a  conversational 
tone  —  are  merely  narrative.  In  irregular  verse,  like  that  of  an  ode,  this  is 
apt  to  be  the  case  with  the  longer  iambic  lines.  9.  Thais,  a  favorite  of  Alex- 
ander, and  a  well-known  and  beautiful  woman  of  the  time.  12-15.  Happy 
.  .  .  fair.  Notice  and  explain  the  effect  of  the  repetitions.  Finally  examine 
the  rhymes  of  the  stanza,  observing  the  change  of  rhyme  system  with  each 
new  thought  of  the  stanza  :  thus  (i)  a-a-b-b-a,  Alexander  and  his  feast ;  (2) 
c-c-c,  the  peers  ;  (3)  d-d-d,  Thais  ;  (4)  e-f-f-e,  Alexander  and  Thais.  What 
should  you  judge,  from  such  groupings  as  these,  to  be  an  underlying  prin- 
ciple of  rhyme  variations  ?  Continue  this  study  of  rhyme-groupings  for 
subsequent  stanzas.  What  purpose  does  the  chorus  of  this  and  the  other 
stanzas  seem  to  serve  ?  What  can  you  say  of  the  onomatopoetic  effect  of 
these  choruses  ? 

Stanza  2.  20.  Timotheus,  a  Theban  musician  of  Alexander's  time. 
26.  seats  above,  i.e.  on  Olympus.  28.  A  dragon's  .  .  .  god.  In  wooing 
mortals,  Jupiter  usually  took  some  such  form,  e.g.  a  swan,  a  bull,  a  shower  of 
gold,  etc.  30.  Olympia,  Olympias,  the  mother  of  Alexander.  33.  an 
image,  i.e.  Alexander.  The  musician  flatters  the  conqueror  by  assigning  to 
him  the  parentage  of  a  demigod.  35.  A  present  deity  :  see  note  on  1.  ^5. 
37-41.  With  .  .  .  spheres.  Note  the  self-conscious  satisfaction  with  which 
Alexander  assumes  this  r61e.  Like  Jupiter,  he  will  shake  the  universe  by  a 
nod.  Note,  also,  the  way  in  which  the  iambic  dimeter  and  trimeter  lines 
picture  this  mood. 

Stanza  3.  47-48.  The  praise  .  .  .  young.  Observe  the  metre  of  these 
merely  narrative  lines.  See  note  on  11.  6-1 1 .  For  characteristics  of  Bacchus, 
see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  44.  49-53.  The  jolly  .  .  .  comes.  Show  how  these 
lines  picture  repressed  excitement,  indicative  of  approaching  Bacchanalian 
revels.  52.  honest  (Lat.  honestus),  handsome,  open,  frank.  53.  hautboys, 
the  modem  oboe.  Look  up  derivation  of  this  word.  54-60.  Bacchus  .  .  . 
pain.  Describe  the  difference  in  rhythmical  effect  between  these  lines  and 
those  just  preceding,  and  show  the  corresponding  difference  in  mood.  What 
line  in  this  stanza  reaches  the  climax  of  excitement  ?  Discuss  the  rhyme 
system  of  the  stanza. 

Stanza  4.  66-68.  Soothed  .  .  .  slain.  Discuss  the  metrical  effect  and 
evident  mood  of  these  lines.  70.  ardent,  used  in  its  radical  sense.  See 
derivation.  72.  his,  his,  to  whom  does  each  pronoun  refer  ?  73.  Muse, 
strain  of  music  or  song.     76.   too  severe,  why  *  too  severe '  ?     77.   Fallen, 

3S 


626  NOTES   TO  POPE 

etc.  Explain  the  fine  effect  of  this  repetition.  What  mood  in  the  former,  and 
what  in  the  latter,  part  of  this  stanza?  Trace  the  rhyme  system  as  in  stanza  i. 

Stanza  5.  97.  Lydian  measures.  This  music  was  soft  and  voluptuous  : 
see  L'Alleg.  (136)  and  note.  97-106.  Softly  .  .  .  provide  thee.  Observe 
how  the  Lydian  measure  is  pictured  by  the  smooth  trochaic  lines,  with  their 
feminine  (double)  rhymes,  liquid  sounds,  and  frequent  alhterations.  107-108. 
The  many  .  .  .  cause.     Explain  the  change  in  metre.     See  note  on  11.  6-1 1, 

Stanza  6.  Compare  the  metrical  effects  of  this  stanza  with  those  of  stanza 
5,  —  sibilants  with  liquids,  harsh  word-sequences  with  smooth  ones,  irregular 
line  lengths  with  regular  ones,  mascuUne  with  feminine  rhymes,  —  giving 
instances  of  each.  Show  how  these  metrical  effects  picture  the  respective 
strains  of  music  in  the  two  stanzaS,  and  the  moods  of  Alexander  which  these 
strains  arouse.  On  harsh  and  easy  sequences  of  sound,  see  Introduction, 
§  21,  1-3.  132-135.  See  .  .  .  eyes.  Such  was  the  ancient  conception  of 
the  Furies.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  54.  138-140.  Grecian  .  .  .  plain. 
With  the  Greeks  burial  was  all-important,  since  without  it  their  souls  could 
not  cross  the  Styx  until  after  years  of  wandering.  See  CI.  M.,  p.  47.  141. 
vengeance  due.  'Due'  to  whom,  and  why?  150.  like  another  Helen. 
Does  this  mean  simply  that  Helen  was  the  indirect  cause  of  Troy's  down- 
fall, or  is  there  any  ground  for  saying  that  she  may  have  actually  helped 
burn  the  city  ?     See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  314.     151.   flambeau.     See  Diet, 

Stanza  7.  This  is  the  stanza  that  links  the  ode  to  the  occasion  for  which 
it  was  written.  Observe  that,  for  the  most  part,  it  is  simple  narrative,  thus 
sharply  contrasting  with  the  excitement  of  the  preceding  stanza.  156-157. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  .  .  .  mute,  since  St.  CeciUa  had  not  yet  come.  See 
introduction  to  notes.  162.  vocal  frame,  the  structure  ('  frame  ')  with  a 
voice,  the  organ.  164-165.  Enlarged  .  .  .  sounds,  i.e.  produced  sustained 
notes,  as  a  reed  instrument  differs  from  a  stringed  instrument  in  having  power 
of  indefinitely  prolonging  its  tones.  170.  She  .  .  .  down.  According  to 
some  accounts  it  was  the  exquisite  playing  of  St.  Ceciha,  according  to  others, 
her  spotless  purity,  that  attracted  the  angel  to  her.  Compare  the  concep- 
tion of  this  line  with  that  of  the  well-known  painting  of  St.  Ceciha. 

POPE 

THE   RAPE  OF   THE  LOCK 

Lord  Petre,  a  young  gentleman  of  London  society,  had  aroused  the  anger 
of  Miss  Arabella  Fermor,  through  "  the  trifling  occasion  of  his  having  cut  off 
a  lock  of  her  hair."  The  "  quarrel "  extended  to  the  families  and  friends  of 
both  parties,  and  became  so  fierce  that  a  Mr.  Caryl,  friendly  to  both,  sug- 
gested to  Pope  that  he  ridicule  the  matter  in  a  "  comical  "  poem,  and  thus 
help  to  end  the  dissension.  The  resulting  poem,  in  two  cantos,  was  first 
printed  in  Lin  tot's  Miscellany  {it  12)  exactly  as  presented  in  this  Volume. 
For  a  comparison  between  this  form  and  the  enlarged  edition  published  two 
years  later,  see  the  discussion  following  the  sketch  of  Pope's  life.    As  to  the 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK  627 

effect  of  the  poem,  it  need  only  be  said  that  Miss  Fermor  was  far  from  pleased 
with  the  notoriety  which  it  thrust  upon  her,  and  that  she  was  not  reconciled 
to  the  offending  Lord  Petre  through  its  influence. 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock  was  called  by  Pope  "  an  heroi-comical  poem."  It  is 
really  a  mock-heroic  or  mock  epic,  in  which  commonplace  events  are  pur- 
posely treated  in  such  a  manner  as  to  raise  them  to  a  plane  of  false  dignity 
and  importance.  The  poem  also  incidentally  burlesques,  or  parodies,  Unes 
and  passages  of  the  serious  epics  of  Greece  and  Rome.  However,  it  is  an 
error  to  speak  of  it  as  a  burlesque.  Indeed,  to  the  ordinary  reader,  un- 
acquainted with  Homer  or  Virgil,  the  poem  has  no  element  of  the  burlesque 
at  alL  But  to  every  class  of  readers,  as  Hazlitt  has  said,  it  is  "  the  perfection 
of  the  mock-heroic,  the  triumph  of  insignificance,  the  apotheosis  of  foppery 
and  folly."  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  is  an  "  occasional  poem  "  —  a  poem  called 
forth  by  some  special  incident  or  occasion  —  and  has  always  been  regarded  as 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  the  kind.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  is,  moreover, 
somewhat  like  the  famous  Spectator  Papers  of  the  same  time,  a  most  delight- 
ful satire  on  the  frivolities  and  foibles  of  the  society  by  which  its  author 
was  surrounded.  (On  Epic,  Mock-heroic,  and  Satire,  see  Introduction, 
§§31,  I,  2;  33.) 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  although  Pope  within  ten  years  was  to  receive  the 
large  sum  of  £9000  for  his  translations  of  Homer,  he  was  paid  for  this  better, 
though  shorter,  production  exactly  £22,  —  £7  for  this  first  edition  and  £15 
for  the  later  one. 

Canto  I.  1-12.  The  Invocation  and  Exordium.  1-3.  What .  .  .  sing, 
a  parody  from  the  first  two  lines  of  the  Iliad.  The  poem  is  full  of  these  paro- 
dies, and  has  always  appealed  with  especial  force  to  those  who  have  an 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets,  and  can  thus  appreciate 

how  Pope  "  takes  off  "  the  stately  lines  of  Homer  and  Virgil.     3.   C 1. 

Caryl  (or  CaryU)  was  a  country  gentleman  of  Sussex,  for  years  a  friend  and 
correspondent  of  Pope.  See  introduction  to  notes.  4.  Belinda.  This 
name  for  Miss  Fermor  occurs  in  the  prefatory  motto  of  the  poem,  and  was 
substituted  by  Pope  for  Polytine  in  the  lines  of  an  epigram  written  by  the 
Latin  poet,  Martial.     11—12.   And  .  .  .  men  :  cf.  Mneid,  I,  11. 

13-34.  The  heroine  of  the  poem  arises  and  attends  a  boating  party  on 
the  Thames.  13.  Sol.  The  excessive  use  of  Greek  and  Latin  proper  names 
was  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  eighteenth-century  Classical  school. 
15.  Shock,  Belinda's  lap-dog.  17.  Thrice  .  .  .  ground.  Knocking  against 
the  floor  ('  ground  ')  with  the  heel  of  a  shoe  or  slipper  was  a  customary  way 
of  summoning  the  maid.  18.  striking  watches.  It  is  interesting  to  find 
that  these  were  invented  over  two  centuries  ago.  At  this  point  the  revised 
edition  added  one  hundred  and  thirty  lines,  introducing  the  Sylphs,  describ- 
ing Behnda's  toilet,  and  closing  the  canto.  26.  unfixed  as  those.  Why 
*  unfixed  '  ?     33.   female  :  cf.  use  in  Deserted   Village  (287). 

35-50.  The  Baron's  designs  on  a  lock  of  Belinda's  hair.  35.  nymph, 
Belinda,  Miss  Fermor.    The  word  is  used  through  the  poem  to  mean  maiden. 


628  NOTES   TO  POPE 

36.  graceful.  Give  syntax.  41.  springes,  snares  or  slip  nooses.  45. 
baron,  Lord  Petre  :  see  introduction  to  notes.  50.  Few  .  .  .  ends  : 
cf.  jEneid,  II,  390,  of  which  this  is  almost  an  exact  translation. 

51-64.  The  rites  and  sacrifices  offered  by  the  Baron  to  '  propitious 
heaven.'  This  is  a  delightful  parody  on  many  similar  occurrences  in  Greek 
and  Latin  epics.  51.  Phoebus  :  see  note  on  1.  13.  52.  Propitious,  a  pro- 
lepsis.  The  Baron's  purpose  was  to  make  heaven  propitious.  53.  Love, 
here,  as  in  1.  39,  means  Cupid.  54.  vast  French  romances.  These  works 
were  indeed  '  vast '  ;  for  instance,  one  of  them,  Clelia  (Clelie),  "  appeared 
in  ten  volumes  of  eight  hundred  pages  each  "  (Hales).     See  Spectator,  No. 

37.  55-56.  Sylvia  and  Flavia,  evidently  two  of  his  '  former  loves.'  59- 
billets-doux  (Fr.  billet,  a  note  +  doux  [Lat.  dulcis],  sweet),  love  letters.  Note 
the  spelling.  Many  editors  have  the  singular,  billet-doux,  an  evident  mistake. 
63.  half  his  prayer.  Which  half  of  the  petition  (1. 62)  was  granted  ?  63-64. 
The  powers  ...  air  :  cf.  Mneid,  XI,  794-795,  a  close  parallel.  At  this 
point  the  enlarged  edition  adds  nearly  one  hundred  lines,  showing  the  prepa- 
rations of  the  Sylphs  to  defend  BeUnda.     This  addition  concludes  Canto  II. 

65-82.  The  visit  of  the  boating  party  to  Hampton  Court.  This  begins 
the  third  canto  of  the  revision.  66.  rising.  Explain.  67.  a  structure, 
Hampton  Court,  about  ten  miles  west  of  London,  originally  built  by  Cardinal 
Wolsey  in  the  sixteenth  century.  70.  foreign  tyrants.  The  reference  is 
especially  to  Louis  XIV  of  France.  71.  three  realms.  What  were  they  ? 
72.  tea,  pronounced  tay  in  Pope's  time.  Though  introduced  into  Europe  a 
century  before  this  time,  tea  was  still  a  very  expensive  article,  and  was  con- 
sidered a  great  luxury.  75-80.  In.  .  .dies.  Characterize  the  conversation. 
76.  was  bit,  taken  in,  or  beaten,  at  cards,  capotted.  To  '  capot '  is  to  take 
all  the  tricks  in  the  game  of  piquet.  In  the  revised  edition  this  line  is  entirely 
changed  to '  Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last  ? '  78.  screen.  Japanese 
and  Indian  screens  were  then  "  the  rage."  81.  Snuflf.  The  habit  of  taking 
snuflf  had  just  been  formed  in  England,  and  was  popular  even  among  ladies 
of  fashion.    See  Spectator,  No.  344.    supply.    Can  the  plural  verb  be  justified  ? 

83-104.  The  intoxication  of  coffee  as  an  influence  on  the  rash  stratagem 
of  the  Baron.  85-86.  When  .  .  .  dine.  These  lines  show  something  of 
Pope's  satirical  tendency.  Croker  speaks  of  them  as  forming  a  "  repulsive 
and  unfounded  couplet."  86.  wretches.  In  what  sense?  88.  And  .  „  .  cease  : 
cf.  Mneid,  VII,  170.  Here  some  eighty  lines  are  added  in  the  second  edition, 
describing,  in  mock-heroic  fashion,  a  game  of  cards  between  Belinda  and  the 
Baron.  90.  berries  .  .  .  mill,  coffee,  and  the  coffee-mill  in  which  it  is 
ground.  Coffee  had  been  common  in  England  for  about  fifty  years,  having 
been  introduced  not  long  after  the  introduction  of  tea  —  shortly  before  1650. 

91.  altars  of  Japan.     Japanned  stands  were  very  popular  in  Pope's  time. 

92.  fiery  spirits.  What  is  meant  ?.  93.  grateful,  to  smell  and  taste. 
94.  China's  earth,  china  ware.  97-98.  which  ,  .  .  eyes.  A  sarcastic  allu- 
sion to  the  "  oracles,"  or  "  would-be  poUticians,"  of  the  coffee-houses.  102- 
104.   Scylla  .  .  .  Nisus  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  201.  '■■> 


THE  RAPE  OF   THE  LOCK  629 

105-118.  The  rape  (seizure)  of  the  lock.  107.  Clarissa.  To  the 
beginning  of  Canto  V  of  the  revised  (17 14)  edition  Pope  subsequently  added 
thirty  lines,  which  first  appeared  in  the  quarto  of  171 7.  These  lines  were 
spoken  by  "  Clarissa,"  on  whom  Pope  made  this  annotation,  —  "a  new  char- 
acter introduced  in  the  subsequent  editions,  to  open  more  clearly  the  moral 
of  the  poem."  He  seems  to  forget  that  he  had  given  Clarissa  a  part  to  play 
in  the  very  first  (171 2)  edition.  She  evidently  represents  some  friend  of 
Miss  Fermor  and  Lord  Petre.  108.  two-edged  weapon  :  see  note  on  '  for-* 
fexj'l.  115.  109-110.  So  .  .  .  fight.  Point  out  the  humor  of  this  compari- 
son. 112.  engine  :  see  note  on  Lye.  (130).  115.  forfex,  a  Latin  word 
for  a  pair  of  shears.  116.  divide,  a  transitive  verb.  What  is  its  object? 
118.   forever.     Describe  the  effect  of  the  repetition. 

119-142.  The  anjguish  of  the  victim  and  the  exultation  of  the  victor. 
120-124.  And  .  .  .  lie.  Note  the  extravagance  of  the  mock-epic.  What 
gives  these  lines  their  humor  ?  129.  Atalantis.  The  New  Atalantis  was 
a  book  of  Pope's  time,  full  of  scandal  of  court  and  society,  by  a  Mrs.  Manley, 
who,  though  a  notorious  adventuress,  was  a  friend  of  such  literary  men  as 
Swift  and  Steele.  130.  small  pillow,  a  pillow  of  rich  material  and  design  — 
perhaps  something  like  a  sofa  pillow  —  which  fashionable  ladies  used  as  a 
support  for  their  heads  and  shoulders  when  receiving  visits  in  their  bedroom. 
This  "  fad  "  was  copied  from  France,  where  at  that  time  it  was  a  way  of  re- 
ceiving fashionable  morning  calls.  See  the  Spectator^  No.  45.  131-134. 
While  .  .  .  live  :  cf.  Mneid,  I,  607-609.  135.  date,  i.e.  time  at  which  it 
must  fall.*  137-138.  Steel  .  .  .  Troy.  For  an  account  of  the  siege  of  Troy, 
see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  277-317.  What  part  did  *  steel '  play  in  Troy's 
downfall  ? 

Canto  IL  143-152.  The  feelings  of  Belmda.  This  begins  Canto  IV 
of  the  revision.  143-144.  But  .  .  .  breast  :  cf.  Mneid,  TV,  1-2.  145- 
152.  Not  .  .  .  hair.  Show  what  feelings  Belinda  had  in  common  with 
each  of  these,  —  *  kings,'  *  virgins,'  '  lovers,'  etc.  148.  ancient  lady,  evi- 
dently "  old  maid."  150.  manteau,  cloak.  152.  ravished  :  cf.  1.  48.  Here 
follow  in  the  revision  about  eighty-five  lines,' describing  the  Cave  of  Spleen. 

153-180.  154.  Thalestris,  Mrs.  Morley,  a  friend  of  Miss  Fermor.  158. 
bodkins,  pins  used  by  women  to  fasten  the  hair,  leads,  used  for  doing  up 
the  hair  ;  just  as  paper  is  used  in  1.  159.  160.  irons,  curling-irons.  166. 
Ease.  Give  syntax.  Meaning  of  the  sentence  ?  169.  degraded  toast. 
Meaning  ?  170.  honor.  Meaning  of  this  word  here  and  in  1.  165  ?  How 
can  it  be  '  lost '  in  a  '  whisper  '  ?  171.  fame.  Meaning  here  ?  174.  Ex- 
posed through  crystal.  The  Baron  evidently  intends  to  have  the  lock  set  in 
a  ring.  177.  Hyde  Park  Circus,  the  Ring,  or  fashionable  drive  of  London. 
178.  And  wits  .  .  .  Bow.  The  Bow  was  the  East  End,  or  "  city  "  part, 
of  London  —  a  favorite  subject  of  satire  for  the  fashionable  wits  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  See  the  Spectator,  No.  34.  179-180.  Sooner  ...  all. 
Observe  the  anticlimax  and  its  effect. 

181-190.    The  remonstrance  of  Sir  Plume.     i8i.   Sir  Plume,  Sir  George 


630  NOTES   TO  POPE 

Brown,  brother  of  Mrs.  Morley  (Thalestris).  He  was  very  angiy  with  this 
liberty  which  Pope  had  taken,  for  the  likeness  was  sufficiently  accurate  to  be 
easily  recognized  by  his  friends.  But,  as  has  been  often  pointed  out,  Pope 
was  never  above  taking  unwarrantable  liberties  with  private  character.  182. 
her,  afterward  changed  to  the,  since  she  was  his  sister.  184.  nice  conduct. 
Twirling  the  cane,  brandishing  it  in  the  air,  and  the  like,  were  actions  much 
affected  by  the  i'ops  of  the  period.  Addison  ridicules  this  in  Taller,  No.  103. 
clouded  cane,  a  cane  mottled  with  dark  spots.  185.  With  .  .  .  face.  De- 
scribe this  picture.  187-190.  And  thus  .  -.  .  hair.  What  would  you  infer 
of  the  man  from  his  speech  ?     188.   Zounds.     Derivation  of  this  word  ? 

191-200.  The  Baron's  reply.  191.  again.  How  is  the  word  used  here  ? 
192.  Who.  What  is  the  antecedent  ?  195.  honors  shall  renew.  Explain. 
198.  wear,  a  transitive  verb  with  its  object  omitted  —  a  favorite  construc- 
tion in  Pope  :  cf.  'divide,'  1.  116,  199.  He  spoke,' a  parody  on  the  fre- 
quently recurring  dixerat  of  Virgil. 

201-231.  Belinda's  lament,  201.  sorrow's  pomp.  Explain.  203-205. 
red  —  head  —  said.  These  Hues  form  a  triplet,  a  very  rare  thing  in  Pope. 
To  avoid  it,  he  omits  1.  203  in  the  revised  edition  :  cf.  1.  319  —  afterward 
omitted  for  the  same  reason.  208-209.  Happy  .  .  .  seen  :  cf.  ^neid,  IV, 
657-658,  —  the  lamentation  of  Dido.  214.  marks,  makes  tracks  on,  i.e. 
where  there  are  no  fashionable  carriages.  215.  ombre,  a  card  game  de- 
scribed fully  in  the  third  canto  of  the  revised  poem,  bohea,  a  kind  of  black 
tea,  pronounced  bohay  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Hence  the  rhyme. 
218.  youthful  lords.  Lord  Petre  was  at  that  time  scarcely  twenty  years  of 
age.  221.  patch-box.  The  wearing  of  black  patches  was  very  common 
among  the  ladies  of  this  period.  See  the  Spectator,  No.  81.  228.  uncouth, 
here  means  ugly.  See  note  on  UAlleg.  (5).  231.  sacrilegious.  Give  the 
derivation.    This  concludes  Canto  IV  of  the  revision. 

232-267.  The  beginning  of  the  struggle.  232.  She  said  :  see  note  on 
1.  199.  233.  But  .  .  .  ears  :  cf.  ^neid,  IV,  440.  236-237.  Not  .  .  .  vain. 
For  the  story  of  Dido  and  ^neas,  see  CI.  D.,  the  Mneid,  IV,  or  CI.  M.,  pp. 
350-352.  At  this  p)oint  thirty  lines  (the  speech  of  Clarissa)  were  added  to 
the  revised  edition.  See  note  on  1.  107.  238-245.  To  arms  .  .  .  wound. 
These  eight  lines  are  overdrawn,  even  for  the  mock-heroic  ;  yet  they  have  no 
little  comic  effect  —  partly  on  account  of  their  very  extravagance,  and  partly 
from  their  balance  with  the  succeeding  eight  lines  relating  a  similar  combat  of 
the  gods.  These  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  are  fighting  like  "  fish  wives  " — 
or  like  gods.  246-253.  So  .  .  .  day.  The  combat  of  the  gods  is  detailed  in 
the //jo^i,  XXI,  272-513.  248.  'Gainst  .  .  .  arms.  '  Mars  '  is  the  subject 
of '  arms,' '  Latona  '  the  object  of '  against.'  Find  out  why  the  different  gods 
took  sides  as  they  did  in  the  Trojan  War.  See  Iliad,  CI.  D.,  or  CI.  M.,  pp. 
278,  284.  251.  Blue  Neptune.  Explain  the  adjective.  On  which  side  of 
the  conflict  was  Neptune  ?  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  169,  285.  253.  And 
.  .  .  day.  The  *  pale  ghosts  '  are  the  people  of  the  underworld  who  are 
startled  at  the  unwonted  light  as  '  the  ground  gives  way.'    257.  One  .  .  . 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK  63 1 

song.  '  In  '  means  in  the  act  of  uttering.  Which  of  the  two  gave  utterance 
to  the  metaphor  and  which  to  the  song?  258.  living  death,  a  common  meta- 
phor in  Milton  and  other  poets.  261.  Those.  .  .killing.  Pope  has  given  a 
note  saying  that  these  were  "  the  words  of  a  song  in  the  opera  of  Camilla." 
262-263.  Mseander's  flowery  margin  .  .  .  dies.  Meander,  a  river  in]  Asia 
Minor,  noted  for  its  winding  course  :  cf.  the  verb  meander.  "  The  Meander 
was  a  famous  haunt  of  swans,  and  the  swan  was  a  favorite  bird  with  the 
Greek  and  Latin  writers,  one  to  whose  singing  they  perpetually  allude." 
(Professor  Hales,  in  Athenceum,  April  20, 1889).  Moreover,  the  swan  is  sup- 
posed to  sing  most  sweetly  as  it  dies. 

268-289.  The  overthrow  of  the  Baron.  268-271.  Now  .  .  .  subside. 
A  close  parody  of  Homer's  well-known  lines  in  the  Iliad,  VIII,  69-73.  See 
also  Mneid,  XII,  725-727.  As  a  result  of  this  judgment  of  Jove,  the  Baron  is 
now  doomed  to  defeat.  277.  one  finger  and  a  thumb,  between  which  she 
held  the  snuff.  281.  re-echoes,  as  he  sneezes.  282.  th'  incensed  virago. 
Look  up  original  meaning  and  the  derivation  of  '  virago.'  283.  bodkin.  In 
modem  terms  we  may  say  that  her  threatened  action  is  equivalent  to  "  stab- 
bing with  a  hat-pin."     287.   leaving  you  behind,  i.e.  leaving  you  alive. 

290-309.  The  disappearance  of  the  lock.  See  11.  61-64.  290-291. 
Restore  .  .  .  rebound.  A  close  imitation  of  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast, 
11-  35-36-  292-293.  Othello  .  .  .  pain  :  see  Othello,  HI,  3.  Does  *  roared  ' 
apply  well  to  Belinda,  even  in  mock-heroic  ?  294.  ambitious  aims.  What 
were  they  and  on  whose  part  ?  298.  must,  force  of  this  word  here  ?  300. 
lunar  sphere,  the  moon.  Derivation  of  'lunar'?  301.  all  .  .  .  lost,  i.e. 
trivial  or  insincere  things.  Note  what  they  are  in  11.  302-309.  Pope  says 
that  he  modelled  this  passage  on  the  Italian  poet  Ariosto,  —  Canto  XXXIV, 
of  the  Orlando  Furioso.  302-303.  heroes',  beaux',  wits.  The  satire  is 
evidently  directed  against  the  soldier  as  well  as  the  fop.  Explain.  304. 
death-bed  alms.  Show  point  of  the  satire.  306-307.  courtier's  promises 
.  .  .  sick  man's  prayers  .  .  .  tears  of  heirs.  Show  insincerity  of  each  of 
these.  308-309.  Cages  .  .  .  butterflies.  Pope  had  little  sympathy  with 
scientific  studies.  309.  tomes  of  casuistry,  huge  books  full  of  learning  such 
as  that  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

310-334.  The  victory  of  the  Muse.  312.  founder,  Romulus,  raised 
after  his  death  to  become  the  God  Quirinus  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  61, 
372.  313.  Proculus,  who  declared  that  he  had  received  a  vision  from  the 
risen  Romulus.  314-315.  A  sudden  star  .  .  .  hair.  Thus  the  lock  became 
a  comet.  Look  up  derivation  of  comet.  316-317.  Berenice's  locks  .  .  . 
light.  Berenice,  the  widow  of  Ptolemy  III,  cut  off  her  hair  and  hung  it  up  in 
the  temple  of  ISIars,  in  obedience  to  a  vow.  The  hair  disappeared,  and  was 
fabled  to  have  been  taken  into  the  heavens,  and  changed  into  the  constella- 
tion which  bears  her  name,  Comu  Berenices.  317.  disheveled.  Look  up 
derivation  and  thus  explain  the  use  of  the  word.  318.  beau  monde,  the 
fashionable  world  (Fr.  beau,  fine -\- motide,  world)..  Mall.  Pall-mall  (pro- 
nounced pell-mell),  an  old  English  ball  game,  has  given  the  name  '  Mall '  to 


632  NOTES   TO  GRAY. 

the  place  where  it  was  played  —  afterward  a  fashionable  walk  in  one  of  tht 
parks  of  London.  319.  As  .  .  .  stray  :  see  note  on  11.  203-205.  321-324. 
Partridge  .  .  .  Rome.  Pope  says,  "  John  Partridge  was  a  ridiculous  star- 
gazer,  who  in  his  almanacks  every  year  never  failed  to  predict  the  downfall  of 
the  Pope  and  the  King  of  France  (Louis  XIV),  then  at  war  with  the  EngHsh." 
322.  Galileo's  eyes,  the  telescope.  Though  Galileo  was  not  the  original 
inventor  of  the  telescope,  he  may  be  said  to  have  independently  invented  it, 
since  the  instrument  he  made  in  1609  was  constructed  before  he  had  seen  any 
of  the  earlier  ones.  The  early  improvements,  moreover,  were  almost  entirely 
his.  326.  shining  sphere,  the  heavens.  329.  murders  of  your  eye.  Ex- 
plain. 331.  fair  suns,  her  eyes.  333-334-  This  lock  .  .  .  name.  A  pre- 
diction remarkably  true.  A  lock  of  hair  and  a  poet  have  immortalized  the 
otherwise  unknown  *  Belinda.'  Probably  so  trivial  an  incident  has  nevei 
before  or  since  inspired  so  brilliant  a  comic  poem. 

The  student  should  make  a  careful  study  of  the  heroic  couplet  as  written 
by  Pope,  and  of  his  skill  in  rhetorical  and  mock-logical  artifices.  In  what 
respects  can  Pope's  style  be  compared  with  Chaucer's  ? 

THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 

Pope's  Essay  on  Man  (173  2-1 734)  having  been  criticized  as  tending 
toward  fatahsm,  the  poet  published  The  Universal  Prayer  (1738)  as  summing 
up  his  essay,  —  "to  show  that  his  system  [of  philosophy]  was  founded  in 
free-will,  and  terminated  in  piety."  Note  the  resemblance  of  the  beginning 
and  the  last  four  stanzas  to  the  Lord's  Prayer.  This  noble  poem,  which 
should  be  read  with  Pope's  foibles  in  mind  for  several  of  its  verses  seem  to 
have  a  personal  reference,  reveals  the  profounder  and  nobler  aspects  of  his 
character,  —  aspects  too  often  ignored. 

GRAY 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

Gray's  Elegy  has  been  called  "  for  its  size  the  most  popular  poem  in  any 
language."  The  reasons  for  this  popularity  are  not  far  to  seek.  The  poem 
deals  with  a  theme  of  universal  interest,  to  which  the  poet  has  contrived  to 
give  almost  ideal  expression.  In  its  felicity  of  phrase,  its  melody  of  verse,  its 
serenity  and  dignity  of  movement,  there  is  little  left  to  be  desired.  Its  pains- 
takmg  and  self-critical  author  was  not  ready  to  give  it  to  the  world  till  seven 
years  after  it  had  been  begun  ;  and  when  finally  published  in  1750,  it  at  once 
sprang  into  a  position  of  favor  which  it  has  never  lost.  Professor  Gosse  says 
of  the  Elegy,  a.  little  extravagantly  perhaps,  that  it  "  has  exercised  an  influ- 
ence over  all  the  p)oetry  of  Europe,  from  Denmark  to  Italy,  from  France  to 
Russia."  Though  the  poem  in  certain  conventionalities  of  style  and  phrasing 
undoubtedly  shows  the  influence  of  the  artificial  school  of  Pope,  on  the  other 
hand  its  sincerity  and  human  sympathy  mark  a  decided  breaking  away  from 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A   COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD      633 

the  tenets  of  that  school.  Instead  of  the  conventional  heroic  couplet,  Gray 
chose  for  the  poem  what  was,  for  that  time,  the  comparatively  rare  quatrain, 
with  iambic  pentameter  lines  to  be  sure,  but  with  alternating  rhyme.  That 
this  verse-form  exactly  suits  the  poem,  there  can  be  little  question. 

This  Elegy  forms  a  good  example  of  composition,  simple,  but  full  of 
thought.  Except  with  careful  reading  it  is  apt  to  leave  an  impression, 
pleasing,  but  on  the  whole  vague.  In  the  following  notes  frequent  ques- 
tions have  been  asked  to  direct  the  student  to  the  sequence  of  ideas.  It 
will  be  well,  also,  to  note  the  stanzaic  groupings  which  follow. 

1-12.  I,  curfew  :  see  note  on// Pe«^.  (74).  parting,  departing, i.<?.  dy- 
ing. Hence  the  '  knell '  :  cf.  L  89.  4.  And  .  .  .  me.  Point  out  the  words 
in  this  and  the  three  preceding  lines  which  show  the  time  of  day,  and  the  lone- 
liness and  hushed  quiet  of  the  scene.  5.  glimmering.  Describe  the  glim- 
mering of  a  landscape  as  darkness  approaches.  6.  stillness  holds.  Explain. 
7-8.  Save  .  .  .  folds.  What  words  are  onomatopoetic  and  what  is  their 
effect  ?    What  intensifies  the  stillness  ? 

13-28.  13.  elms,  yew-tree.  Why  these  particular  trees  ?  i6.  rude, 
in  what  sense  ?  Hales  suggests  that  as  the  poet  stands  in  the  churchyard, 
it  is  the  poorer  people  he  is  thinking  of,  since  the  richer  are  interred  in  the 
church,  a  place  of  greater  sanctity,  and  greater  security  for  the  elaborate 
tombs.  20.  lowly  bed.  Is  this  literal,  or  does  it  mean  the  grave  ?  21. 
blazing  hearth.  What  figure  ?  22.  ply  her  evening  care.  To  what  house- 
hold tasks  may  this  line  apply  ? 

29-44.  Into  what  two  divisions  does  this  passage  fall  ?  33.  boast  of 
heraldry,  pride  of  birth.  Heraldry  is  the  science  of  recording  genealogies. 
37.  the  fault.  For  a  suggestion  of  the  meai^ing,  see  11.  49-52.  39.  aisle: 
see  note  on  1.  16.  39.  fretted  vault,  the  arched  roof  of  the  church, 
with  ornamentations  of  fretwork.  40.  pealing  :  cf.  II  Pens.  (161).  41. 
storied,  on  which  is  inscribed  an  epitaph  or  '  story.'  The  urn,  originally 
a  receptacle  for  the  ashes  of  the  dead,  is  here  an  ornament  for  the  tomb.  For 
'  storied,'  see  //  Fens.  (159).  animated  bust,  lifelike  statue.  42.  man- 
sion :  see  note  on  II  Pens.  (92),  43,  Honor's  voice,  words  honoring  the 
dead,     provoke,  in  its  radical  sense  (from  Lat.  pro  -{■  vocare,  to  call  forth). 

45-56.  Show  relation  to  preceding  passage.  46.  pregnant  with  celes- 
tial fire.  As  far  as  the  spark  of  divinity  or  native  ability  is  concerned  they 
might  have  been  kings  (47)  or  poets  (48).  50.  Rich  .  .  .  time.  Explain, 
unroll.  The  early  books  were  simply  rolls  of  parchment.  Cf.  derivation  of 
volume.  51-52.  Chill  Penury  .  .  .  soul.  Explain  the  figure  in  detail. 
Particularly  discuss  'noble  rage'  and  'genial  current.'  53-56.  Full  .  .  . 
air.  What  is  the  application  of  these  two  figures  to  the  preceding  lines  ? 
Do  they  express  the  same  idea,  or  do  you  detect  a  difference  ? 

57-76.  Showing  both  the  limitations  and  the  blessings  of  this  sunple 
country  people.  57.  Hampden.  In  1636  John  Hampden,  a  cousin  of 
Cromwell,  refused  to  pay  ship  money,  a  tax  which  the  king  was  levying  with- 
out the  consent  of  Parliament.    The  *  tyrant '  he '  withstood  '  was,  of  course. 


634  NOTES   TO  GRAY 

Charles  I.  What  would  a  '  village-Hampden  '  be,  and  what  '  the  little 
tyrant '  ?  60.  Cromwell.  The  personality  and  motives  of  the  Protector 
were  very  much  misunderstood  in  the  eighteenth  century  :  see  1.  67.  61-64. 
Th'  applause  .  .  .  eyes.  The  four  infinitives  of  this  stanza  are  the  objects 
of  '  forbade  '  (65).  62.  threats  .  .  .  despise.  To  what  may  this  refer  and 
what  does  '  despise  '  mean  ?  63.  To  scatter  .  .  .  land.  How  and  in  what 
position  can  a  man  '  scatter  plenty  '  ?  64.  And  read  .  .  .  eyes.  Explain 
in  the  light  of  the  lines  above.  67.  to  wade  .  .  .  throne  :  see  note  on  1.  60. 
69-70.  The  struggling  .  .  .  shame.  Show  meaning  of  each  of  these  lines. 
71-72,  Or  heap  .  .  .  flame.  In  the  time  of  Gray,  and  long  before,  it  was 
often  the  practice  of  poets  to  attach  themselves  to  some  rich  patron  and  di- 
rect their  energies  toward  pleasing  his  vanity.  73.  Far  from  .  .  .  strife. 
Show  that  this  phrase  modifies  '  wishes,'  and  not  '  to  stray.'  74.  to  stray, 
i.e.  into  forbidden  paths.     75.   cool  sequested  vale  of  life.     Meaning  ? 

77-92.  The  preceding  stanzas  (11.  13-76)  really  constitute  the  elegy  sung 
by  the  poet  in  honor  of  those  buried  in  the  country  churchyard.  The  lines 
of  this  passage  refer  to  the  rude  memorials  which  even  these  humble  people 
have  set  up  in  response  to  that  universal  instinct  which  requires  something  to 
perpetuate  our  memory.  77.  even  these  bones  :  cf.  11.  37-40.  79.  uncouth: 
see  note  on  UAlleg.  (5).  81.  unlettered,  the  rude  verse  of  some  unschooled, 
rustic  poet.  84.  rustic  moralist.  Meaning  ?  Point  out  the  solecism  in  this 
line.  85.  prey,  an  objective  complement,  —  Whoever  gave  up  as  a  willing 
prey  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  —  this  life.  '  Prey  '  refers,  not  to  '  who,'  but  to 
life,  dumb  forgetfulness.  Discuss  the  adjective.  89-92.  On  .  .  .  fires. 
Hales  suggests  that  the  four  lines  of  this  stanza  form  a  climax,  the  picture 
being  of  a  person  (i)  near  death,  (2)  dying,  (3)  immediately  after  death, 
(4)  long  since  dead.  In  whichever  state  he  may  be,  there  is  the  same  yearn- 
ing for  loving  remembrance.  89.  parting  :  cf.  1.  i  and  note.  90.  pious, 
prompted  by  affection  and  devotion,  such  as  that  of  a  child  for  a  parent,  etc. 
Cf.  the  expression  "  the  pious  ^neas."     92.  their  wonted  fires.    Meaning  ? 

93-116.  In  these  lines  Gray  imagines  himself  buried,  like  those  of  whom 
he  is  writing,  in  some  humble  country  churchyard.  95.  chance,  by  chance. 
96.  kindred  spirit,  perhaps  some  other  contemplative  poet.  ioi.  yonder. 
Note  how  this  word  adds  to  the  vividness  of  the  picture.  Cf.  '  yon  '  (105). 
106-108.  Mutt'ring  .  .  .  love.  It  is  with  something  akin  to  humor  that 
Gray  pictures  a  poet,  —  himself,  as  he  would  have  appeared  to  this  curious 
observer,  in.  Another  came,  another  morning.  115.  lay.  The  word  is 
used  very  loosely.    What  does  it  properly  mean  ? 

117-128.  The  Epitaph.  In  this  we  are  given  a  picture,  not  so  much  of 
the  actual  Thomas  Gray,  as  of  Gray  in  the  assumed  character  of  the  writer  of 
this  Elegy.  In  other  words,  we  need  not  expect  all  the  fines  of  the  Epitaph 
to  be  strictly  applicable  to  the  personal  life  or  character  of  the  poet.  In 
spirit  they  undoubtedly  do  apply.  118.  A  youth  .  .  .  unknbwn.  Was 
Gray  known  to  Fortune  ?  to  Fame  ?  119.  Science,  in  its  radical  sense  of 
learning  (from  Lat.  scientia).     frowned  not,  i.e.  smiled.     Was  this  true  of 


I 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  635 

Gray  ?  120.  Melancholy  :  see  note  on  //  Pens.  (12).  124.  a  friend. 
What  is  meant  ?  128.  bosom,  in  apposition  with  and  explanatory  of 
'  abode.'    Why  '  dread  '  abode  ? 

Compare  this  Elegy  with  Lycidas  and  discuss  the  difference  between  the 
elegy  and  the  reflective  lyric  like  //  Penseroso.  See  Introduction,  §  30, 
4,  5.  What  order  of  poetry  is  this  :  interpretive  or  creative,  and  of  what 
grade?  (§35)-  Consider  the  kinds  and  fitness  of  the  poetic  images.  What 
lines  may  be  classed  as  supremely  poetic  —  inevitable,  and  why  ?  (See 
§§8;  34.) 

GOLDSMITH 

THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE 

The  Deserted  Village,  published  in  May,  1770,  sprang  at  once  into  favor, 
passing  through  four  editions  in  the  first  month.  This  popularity  it  has 
never  lost  through  all  the  subsequent  changes  of  Uterary  fashion.  That  the 
influence  of  Pope  and  his  school,  which  had  been  gradually  dying  out,  is  still 
■  felt  by  Goldsmith  and  his  intimate  friend  and  critic,  Dr.  Johnson,  is  seen 
clearly  in  the  work  of  both  poets.  The  two  features  of  the  Classical  school 
here  most  evident  are  :  (i)  the  use  of  the  heroic  couplet,  and  (2)  the  ten- 
dency of  the  poem  to  be  didactic.  As  regards  the  latter  feature,  it  need  only 
be  said  that  the  best  parts  of  the  poem  are  those  in  which  the  author  is  most 
the  poet  and  least  the  teacher  of  political  economy.  Many  attempts  have 
been  made  to  identify  the  '  sweet  Auburn  '  of  the  poem  with  the  home  of 
Goldsmith's  boyhood,  the  village  of  Lissoy.  Undoubtedly  the  pictures  the 
poet  draws  are  taken  from  memories  of  his  early  surroundings  ;  yet  he  has 
used  these  only  as  suggestions  to  his  imagination  in  building  up  an 
idealized  Deserted  Village. 

1-34.  Point  out  the  two  chief  topics  of  this  stanza,  naming  explicitly  the 
beauties  of  scene  and  the  social  pleasures  mentioned,  i.  Auburn.  Lissoy, 
thought  to  be  the  original  of  Auburn,  was  a  village  in  the  centre  of  Ireland. 
2.  swain.  A  very  common  word  in  eighteenth-century  poetry.  4.  parting  : 
see  note  to  Gray's  Elegy  (i).  5.  bowers,  a  favorite  word  with  Goldsmith  : 
see  11.  33,  37,  47,  86,  366.  10.  cot,  cottage  —  its  original  meaning.  12.  de- 
cent :  see  note  on  II  Pens.  (36).  14.  age.  What  figure?  17.  train, 
Another  of  Goldsmith's  favorite  words.  See  11.  63,  81,  135,  149,  252,  320, 
337.  Few  authors  are  so  inclined  to  repeat  certain  words  as  he.  19.  circled. 
Show  just  in  what  sense  these  pastimes  '  circled.'  23.  still,  ever  —  its  usual 
meaning  in  poetry.  25.  simply,  artlessly.  27.  mistnistless.  Picture  the 
self  satisfied  smirking  of  the  swain,  blissfully  unconscious  of  his  real  appear- 
ance or  of  the  secret  laughter. 

35-50.  Name  explicitly  the  features  of  the  *  deserted  village,'  showing 
the  points  of  contrast  between  this  and  the  first  stanza.  35-  lawn  :  see  notes 
on  UAlleg.  (71).  37.  tyrant's  hand  :  cf. '  one  only  master,'  1.  39.  The  man 
of  wealth  is  able  to  buy  up  large  tracts  of  land,  turning  them  into  parks  and 


636  NOTES   TO  GOLDSMITH 

pleasure  grounds,  thus  dispossessing  the  original  tenant.  40.  stints,  limits 
its  productiveness.     Why?     Cf.  note  on  1.  37. 

51-56.  52.  decay.  In  what  sense  and  from  what  cause  according  to 
Goldsmith?  53.  may,  i.e.  it  makes  little  difference.  54.  breath,  e.g.  the 
word  of  a  king. 

57-74.  What  change  in  England  do  these  lines  suggest  as  having  taken 
place?  57.  England's  griefs.  To  what  does  the  poet  refer?  58.  rood. 
How  large  is  a  rood?  63.  unfeeling  train:  see  notes  on  1.  37  and  1.  17. 
67.  want  .  .  .  allied,  the  desires  which  riches  bring.  72.  Lived  in  each 
look.     Meaning?     73.    kinder  shore.     Where,  and  in  what  sense  *  kinder  ' ? 

75-112.  75.  parent  .  .  ,  hour.  Explain  the  figure.  76.  tyrant's :  cf. 
1.  37.  78.  tangling.  Why  better  than  tangled?  83-96.  In  .  .  .  last. 
A  stanza  of  pure  and  evidently  sincere  lyric.  84.  and  .  .  .  share.  How 
far  was  this  true  of  Goldsmith's  life?  86.  me.  The  personal  pronoun  used 
for  the  reflexive.  87-88.  To  husband  .  .  .  repose.  Explain  the  figure, 
bearing  in  mind  that  a  candle  in  motion  burns  more  rapidly  than  one  at  rest. 
93-96.  as  an  hare  .  .  .  last.  The  first  of  the  fine  similes  which  adorn  this 
poem.  Explain  it  in  detail.  For  '  an,' see  note  on  1.  268.  97-112.  O  .  .  . 
past.     Compare  with  preceding  stanza  as  to  beauty  and  sincerity. 

113-136.  The  village  before  and  after  its  desolation.  Contrast  these 
two  pictures.  114.  Up  yonder  hill.  Where  is  the  poet  as  he  hears  the 
sounds?  murmur,  a  word  which  is  pure  onomatopoeia.  Look  up  deri- 
vation. 116.  softened.  Why?  119;  121.  gabbled;  whispering,  ono- 
matopoeias. 122.  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  indicated  the  care-free  mind. 
Others  interpret  this  as  the  loud,  meaningless  laugh  of  some  village  idiot. 
Which  interpretation  is  the  better,  and  why?  124.  And  filled  .  .  .  made. 
The  nightingale,  near  at  hand,  is  singing  the  solo,  while  the  distant  sounds 
are  his  accompaniment.  136.  sad  historian.  She  is  an  historian  simply 
from  the  fact  of  her  being  there.  How  does  her  presence  emphasize  the 
loneliness  of  the  place? 

137-162.  The  village  preacher.  In  creating  this  picture  the  poet  is 
thought  to  have  had  in  mind  his  father.  Compare  it  with  the  "  poor  parson  " 
of  Chaucer's  Prologue  (477-528).  140.  mansion.  Look  up  derivation  and 
cf.  manse.  Also  see  note  on  II  Pens.  (92).  142.  passing,  an  adverb  modi- 
fying rich,  meaning  surpassingly,  forty  pounds  a  year.  £40  had  been  the 
actual  income  of  the  poet's  brother  Henry,  a  parson  in  Ireland.  This  coin- 
cidence, together  with  the  poet's  grief  over  his  brother's  recent  death,  inclines 
us  to  believe  that  the  brother  as  well  as  the  father  served  as  a  model  for  this 
tenderly  drawn  portrait.  146.  By  doctrines  .  .  .  hour,  i.e.  he  was  not 
what  we  now  term  a  "  popular  preacher."  148.  to  raise  ...  to  rise:  cf. 
'  to  fawn,'  1.  145.  Until  after  Goldsmith's  time  the  infinitive  was  regularly 
used  where  we  should  now  prefer  a  preposition  with  a  participial  object 
(gerund  or  gerundive  construction).  154.  kindred.  In  what  sense?  157. 
tales,  nominative  absolute  before  a  participle  (ablative  absolute  in  Latin). 
This  was  a  favorite  construction  with  Goldsmith.    Cf.  other  instances  in 


TEE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  637 

11.  79,  95,  181.  161.  to  scan  :  see  note  on  1.  148.  162.  pity  .  .  .  charity. 
Discuss. 

163-192.  164,  And  e'en  .  .  .  side.  Show  just  what  this  line  means. 
167-170.  And  as  a  bird  .  ,  .  way.  Explain  in  detail  this  srniile.  172.  dis- 
mayed, filled  with  terrible  forebodings.  173.  The  reverend  champion  stood. 
In  these  words  note  the  tone  of  quiet  strength.  173.  venerable,  in  its  radi- 
cal sense,  worthy  of  veneration.  How  did  his  looks  '  adorn  '  the  place  ? 
179.  double  sway.  Why  '  double  '  ?  182.  steady,  honest.  Discuss  these 
epithets.  183.  endearing  wile.  Describe  this  picture.  189-192.  As  some 
.  .  .  head.     Show  in  detail  the  application  of  this  simile. 

193-216.  The  village  master.  The  original  of  this  picture  is  said  to 
have  been  Thomas,  or  "  Paddy,"  Byrne,  an  old  ex-soldier,  who  was  Gold- 
smith's teacher  at  Lissoy.  194.  unprofitably  gay.  Why  *  unprofitably  '  ? 
Cf.  Gray's  Elegy  (55-56).  195.  to  rule:  see  note  on  1.  148.  199,  boding 
tremblers.  They  trembled  because  of  their  foreboding.  209.  terms  and 
tides  presage.  He  could  foretell  the  dates  in  which  the  courts  were  to 
assemble  {cf.  terms  of  court),  as  well  as  the  times  and  seasons  of  religious 
festivals  (as  Christm.as-tide,  Yule-tide,  etc.).  210.  gauge,  measure  the  ca- 
pacity of  barrels  ;  to  the  villagers  an  almost  incredible  accomplishment. 
2 1 1-3 1 6.  In  .  .  .  knew.  What  words  of  this  passage  are  especially  apt 
in  bringing  out  the  humor  of  the  lines  ? 

217-236.  The  village  inn.  217-218.  spot  .  .  .  triumphed,  i.e.  the 
inn  :  see  1.  214.  218.  triumphed.  How  ?  221.  nut-brown  draughts  :  see 
UAlUg.  (100).  222.  grey-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil.  Explain  these 
metonymies.  226.  parlor  splendors.  Explain  the  epithet.  228.  clock 
.  .  .  clicked.  Note  the  onomatopoeia.  229.  contrived,  a  participle.  231. 
use.  The  wall  doubtless  had  knot-holes  which  must  be  covered.  232.  The 
twelve  good  rules,  said  to  have  been  made  by  Charles  I,  were  as  follows, 
according  to  Rolfe  :  (i)  Urge  no  healths ;  (2)  Profane  no  divine  ordinances ; 
(3)  Touch  no  state  matters  ;  (4)  Reveal  no  secrets  ;  (5)  Pick  no  quarrels  ; 
(6)  Make  no  companions  ;  (7)  Maintain  no  ill  opinions  ;  (8)  Keep  no  bad 
company  ;  (9)  Encourage  no  vice  ;  (10)  Make  no  long  meals  ;  (11)  Repeat 
no  grievances  ;  (12)  Lay  no  wagers,  the  royal  game  of  goose,  possibly 
something  like  the  old  game  of  fox  and  geese.     236.   chimney,  fireplace. 

237-250.  238.  Why  '  tottering  mansion  '  ?  240.  hour's  importance. 
Meaning  ?  243.  farmer's  news.  "  The  farmer's  necessary  visits  to  the 
neighboring  market  town  would  naturally  make  him  the  newsman" 
(Hales),  barber's  tale,  the  talkativeness  of  barbers  is  an  old  joke.  244. 
wood-man's  ballad,  evidently  a  hunter's  song.  248.  mantling  bliss. 
Explain  the  metonymy. 

251-264.  A  contrast  between  these  simple  pleasures  of  the  poor  and 
the  conventional  and  artificial  pleasures  of  the  rich.  253.  congenial,  in  its 
radical  sense.  Look  up  derivation.  256.  The  soul  .  .  .  sway.  Explain 
and  illustrate.  257,  vacant,  care-free  :  cf.  1.  122.  260.  wanton  wealth. 
Explain  the  epithet.     262.   Toiling  pleasure.     Meaning  ? 


638  NOTES   TO  GOLDSMITH 

265-286.  An  apostrophe  to  those  who  really  have  the  good  of  England 
at  heart,  but  who,  in  the  poet's  opinion,  are  dazzled  by  the  growing  wealth 
of  the  country.  267,  'Tis  yours,  i.e.  your  duty.  268.  an  happy.  Accord- 
ing to  the  present  usage  regarding  the  indefinite  article  before  aspirated  h,  a 
is  used  before  monosyllables  or  polysyllables  accented  on  the  first  syllable,  as 
a  hare,  a  history  ;  in  other  cases  an  is  used,  as  an  historian.  269.  loads 
of  freighted  ore.  This  seems  to  be  the  money  coming  into  England  in  pay- 
ment for  exported  goods  which  ought  really  never  to  have  left  the  country. 
270.  shouting  Folly.  Explain  the  metonymy.  274.  the  same.  No  useful 
products  have  been  imported.  275.  Not  so  the  loss,  etc.,  for  the  wealth 
which  has  come  in  (269)  serves  only  to  add  to  the  luxury  of  the  rich  man, 
and  to  enable  him  to  encroach  on  the  lands  that  are  giving  sustenance  to  the 
poor.  See  note  on  1.  37.  276.  poor.  Is  this  the  subject  or  the  object  of 
*  supplied  '  ?  279-280.  The  robe  .  .  .  growth.  Thus  luxuries,  as  well  as 
money  (269),  have  come  in  as  equivalent  for  the  necessities  so  unwisely  ex- 
ported. 281.  seat,  i.e.  country-seat.  For  such  compounds,  see  note  on 
UAlleg.  (120).  282.  Indignant  .  .  .  green.  Explain.  283-284.  Around 
.  .  .  supplies  :  see  note  to  11.  279-280.  It  must  be  admitted  that  in  the 
passage  above  Goldsmith's  ideas  on  political  economy  are  very  crude. 

287-302.  Do  you  enjoy  this  simile  more  or  less  than  the  three  earlier 
ones,  and  why  ?  293.  solicitous  to  bless,  anxious  to  charm.  299.  famine 
.  .  .  smiling  land.     Explain  the  apparent  contradiction. 

303-308.  308.  bare  worn  common  is  denied.  Pancoast  defends  these 
statements  of  Goldsmith  by  quoting  from  Lecky's  History  of  England  in  the 
Eighteenth  Century:  "  Whole  villages  which  had  depended  on  free  pasture 
land  and  fuel  dwindled  and  perished,  and  a  stream  of  emigrants  passed  to 
America." 

309-336.  The  sorrows  of  the  city's  poor.  311.  ten  thousand.  The 
stating  of  a  large  definite  number  for  a  large  indefinite  number  forms  a  species 
of  synecdoche,  baneful.  Find  meaning  by  looking  up  derivation.  314. 
Extorted  .  .  .  woe.  Explain.  315-318.  Here  .  .  ,  way.  Both  antithesis 
and  parallelism.  316.  artist,  artisan.  319.  dome,  in  its  radical  sense  (from 
'L2i\..  damns ,  di\iOVi^€) .  322.  rattling  chariots  clash.  Show  effect  of  the  ono- 
matopoeia, torches,  used  before  the  days  of  street  lights.  330.  Sweet  as 
the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn.  One  of  the  best  lines  in  all  English 
poetry  of  nature.  336.  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown,  spinning-wheel 
and  the  plain  dress  of  a  country  girl. 

337-362.  In  this  stanza  we  see  a  very  prominent  trait  of  Goldsmith  — 
a  tendency  to  let  imagination  and  prejudice  supply  the  place  of  exact  knowl- 
edge. He  speaks  of  Georgia  as  if  it  were  tropical  South  America,  and  very 
probably  knew  no  better.  344.  Altama,  the  Altamaha,  a  river  in  Georgia. 
to,  in  sympathy  or  unison  with.  347-358.  Those  .  .  .  skies,  an  admirable 
picture  of  a  tropical  jungle,  but  hardly  Georgia  !  359-362.  Far  .  .  .  love. 
Contrast  the  quiet  beauty  of  these  lines  with  the  horrors  of  the  lines  preced- 
ing. 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE  639 

363-384.  The  *  parting  day.'  363.  parting  :  see  note  on  1.  4.  372. 
new  found  worlds.  To  what  does  the  poet  refer  ?  374.  only.  What  does 
'  only  '  modify,  and  is  its  position  correct  ?  380.  cot  :  see  note  on  1.  10. 
381.  thoughtless  babes.  Significance  of  the  epithet.  384.  silent  manli- 
ness of  grief.     Compare  the  grief  of  the  husband  with  that  of  the  wife. 

385-394.  Apostrophe  to  luxury.  386.  things  like  these.  To  what 
does  the  poet  refer  ?  387-388.  How  do  .  .  .  destroy.  Like  an  opiate, 
these  '  potions  '  first  seem  to  soothe  and  give  pleasure,  but  eventually  bring 
certain  ruin  and  death.  389-394.  Kingdoms  .  .  .  round.  Explain  this 
figure  in  detail.     391.  draught,  of  the  '  potions  '  (387). 

395-430.  The  exodus  of  the  '  rural  virtues  '  from  England  and  an  apos- 
trophe to  departing  '  Poetry.'  398-402.  I  .  .  .  strand.  These  lines  form 
a  good  illustration  of  the  figure  called  vision.  408.  Still  first  ,  .  .  invade  : 
see  note  on  II  Pens.  (46-48).  409.  degenerate  times.  This  was  a  very 
barren  period  in  the  history  of  English  poetry.  Though  Johnson  and  Gray 
were  living,  neither  had  written  for  years  ;  while  Burns  and  Cowper  did  not 
write  until  fifteen  years  after  The  Deserted  Village  was  published.  The  poet 
professes  to  ascribe  this  situation  to  '  degenerate  times  '  in  England,  during 
which  the  Muse  was  '  neglected  and  decried.'  412.  My  shame  in  crowds,  my 
solitary  pride.  Goldsmith's  appearance  in  public  was  not  imposing.  He 
wrote  better  than  he  talked.  The  actor,  Garrick,  said  of  him  in  his  famous 
mock-epitaph  :  — 

"Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor  Poll " ; 

but  it  is  more  than  likely  that  much  of  "  Noll's  "  Irish  humor  escaped  his 
more  deliberate  English  friends.  413-414.  Thou  source  .  .  .  keep'stmeso. 
Goldsmith  was  notoriously  one  of  the  most  improvident  of  men.  He  never 
learned  the  value  of  money,  and  spent  it  as  fast  or  faster  than  he  earned  it. 
415.  nobler  arts.  To  what  does  the  poet  refer,  and  how  is  poetry  a  guide 
by  which  they  excel  ?  418.  Torno's  cliffs,  i.e.  the  clifFs  overhanging  the 
river  Tornea  or  Tomeo,  between  northern  Sweden  and  Russia.  Pamba- 
marca,  a  mountain  near  Quito  in  Ecuador,  South  America.  419.  equinoctial 
fervors,  torrid  heat.  421.  prevailing  over  time.  Discuss.  422,  Redress, 
make  man  forget.  427-430.  That  .  .  .  sky.  These  lines  are  said  to  have 
been  added  by  Dr.  Johnson.  Can  you  detect  a  difference  from  the  rest  of 
the  poem  in  style  ?  Show  why,  according  to  the  poet,  '  trade's  proud 
empire  '  is  like  an  artificial  wall,  doomed  to  be  swept  away,  while  the 
'  self-dependent  power '  of  a  '  bold  peasantry '  will  forever  resist  the 
elements. 

Point  out  in  this  poem  the  poetic  figures  that  you  consider  to  be  most 
fitting,  and  classify  them.  Compare  the  idyllic  descriptions  with  those  of 
U Allegro,  and  the  character-sketches  with  Chaucer's  in  the  Prologue.  How 
do  Goldsmith's  imagination  and  humor  compare  with  Pope's  in  the  Rape  of 
the  Lock  ?  Is  the  heroic  couplet  more  or  less  *'  run  on  "  ?  (See  Introduc- 
tion, §  24,  I.) 


640  NOTES   TO  BURNS 


BLAKE 

In  his  highest  poetic  flights  Blake  anticipated  the  mood  and  manner  of 
more  than  one  of  the  better  known  singers  of  the  new  romantic  age  :  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge  in  their  rapturous  simplicity  of  diction  and  in  the 
consciousness  of  communion  with  the  spirit  of  nature  ;  both  of  these  and 
Byron  and  Shelley  in  their  roseate  dreams  of  political  freedom  ;  Byron  and 
Shelley  in  their  disdain  for  social  convention,  and  Shelley  especially  in  the 
prophecy  and  mystic  imagery  of  an  era  of  brotherly  love.  Few  of  Blake's 
very  few  but  precious  songs  need  annotation.  Only  two  notes  are  offered 
here  :  the  "  '  weep,  'weep  "  of  the  first  stanza  of  The  Chimney  Sweeper  is  the 
street-cry  (for  '  sweep,  sweep  ')  of  the  trade  ;  the  word  '  Auguries,'  in  the 
title  of  the  last  song,  signifies  divining  powers  or  divinations,  —  the  divi- 
nations of  innocence.  —  The  first  three  poems  are  from  The  Songs  of  Inno- 
cence ;  the  lines  on  Auguries  are  the  beginning  of  a  poem  which  existed  for 
a  long  time  in  manuscript  only.  The  student  will  greatly  enjoy  reading 
the  other  songs  of  Blake's  three  slender  collections. 


BURNS 

In  Edinburgh,  in  1787,  Burns  met  James  Johnson,  an  engraver  who  was 
publishing  the  first  volume  of  a  collection  of  Scottish,  English,  and  Irish 
songs  and  music.  Burns  became  the  chief  contributor  to  the  succeeding 
five  volumes,  collecting  old  airs  and  composing  new  words  to  many  of  them. 
"  For  the  mere  love  of  the  thing,  and  without  fee  or  reward,  ungrudgingly 
he  worked  day  and  night  for  the  last  nine  years  of  his  life  to  illustrate  the 
airs  of  Scotland,'and  he  died  with  the  pen  in  his  hand.  His  farming  brought 
him  no  riches,  his  business  of  ganger  only  weariness,  his  songs  nothing  at  all 
—  then.  But  it  is  by  his  songs  that  he  is  best  known  and  will  be  longest 
remembered."  In  all  collections  that  may  ever  be  made  of  the  world's  best 
known  and  best  loved  social  songs,  or  patriotic  songs,  or  amatory,  or  hur 
morous,  or  bacchanahan  songs.  Bums  will  always  be  represented  by  one 
or  more  lyrics  of  preeminent  worth  and  popularity.  To  the  fact  that  the 
germs  of  many  of  his  lyrics  lie  in  old  folk-songs  and  that  he  composed  for 
the  inimitalDle  airs  of  folk-ftiusic,  is  due  in  large  part  the  extraordinary 
freshness,  truth,  and  singable  quality  of  his  songs.  But  Burns  borrowed 
only  to  transfigure,  and  the  old  tunes  were  his  by  the  divine  right  of  perfect 
understanding  and  appreciation.  No  lyrics  are  more  musical  than  his. 
Most  of  the  Elizabethan  songs,  indeed,  had  melodies  written  for  them  and 
were  composed  with  that  expectation  ;  but  Burns  reversed  the  process  by 
almost  invariably  fitting  the  words  to  the  tune.  In  composing  he  would 
repeatedly  hum  the  old  air,  feeling  its  quality  and  catching  its  inspiration, 
so  that  he  might  find  a  theme  and  words  that  were  suitable.  Although  in 
this  way  he  contributed  over  two  hundred  songs  to  Johnson's  collection 


HIGHLAND  MARY  641 

The  Scots  Musical  Museum  (6  vols.,  1 787-1803)  and  to  George  Thomson's 
Scottish  Airs  (5  vols.,  1793-1818),  yet  to  only  a  few  of  these,  in  the  origmal 
editions,  was  the  name  of  Burns  attached. 

AuLD  Lang  Syne  (1796;  written  1788).  There  is  some  uncertainty 
concerning  the  authorship  of  this  most  famous  of  social  songs,  but  it  is 
highly  probable  that  most  of  it  is  Burns's  own  composition.  To  previous 
songs  he  was  indebted  for  the  germ  of  the  song,  the  old  and  common  refrain, 
"  For  auld  lang  syne  "  ;  for  the  first  line,  "  Should  auld  acquaintance  be 
forgot  "  ;  and  for  the  sentiment  of  the  following  line.  Texts  of  the  song 
vary.  In  a  copy  in  Burns's  handwriting,  found  in  an  interleaved  volume  of 
the  Scots  Mtiseum,  the  fourth  line  is  "  And  days  o'  syne?  "  the  fifth  line  is 
"And  for  auld  lang  syne,  my  jo,"  and  the  ninth  is  "And  surely  ye'll  be 
your  pint-stowp !  "  "Jo,"  in  the  above  version  of  the  fifth  line,  is  a  term 
of  friendly  address,  —  "dear";  literal  meaning,  joy.  4.  auld  lang  syne,  old 
long  ago,  i.e.  days  of  long  ago.  "  Jamieson,  in  his  Scottish  Dictionary, 
describes  *  syne  '  as  follows  :  '  To  a  native  of  this  country  it  is  very  expres- 
sive, and  conveys  a  soothing  idea  to  the  mind,  as  recalling  the  memory  of 
joys  that  are  past.'  This  is  precisely  what  the  whole  of  the  song  of  Burns 
does,  and  it  is  the  central  source  of  its  immense  popularity  "  (J.  C.  Dick, 
The  Songs  of  Robert  Burns,  p.  435).  'Syne'  is  our  word  sitice.  g.  be, 
pay  for.  pint-stowp,  pint-stoup, —  "  a  pint-vessel  containing  two  English 
quarts."  13-.  braes,  hillsides.  14.  pou'd,  pulled,  gowans,  wild  daisies. 
16.  sin*,  since.  17.  paidl'd,  paddled,  waded,  burn,  brook.  18.  Frae, 
from.  dine,  dinner-time,  noon.  19.  braid,  broad.  21.  fiere,  friend. 
22.  gie,  give.  23.  gude-willy  waught,  a  long  drink  of  good-will  ;  recalling 
the  '  cup  o'  kindness  '  of  the  chorus.  —  In  one  version  the  second  stanza 
is  put  last.     Why  is  it  more  appropriate  in  its  present  place  ? 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  Can  Blaw  (i79o).>  This  very  well-known 
and  popular  song  was  written  in  1788  during  the  poet's  honeymoon.  Jean 
is  his  wife,  Jean  Armour,  and  the  original  title  was  "  I  love  my  Jean." 
25.  airts,  directions.  26-27,  The  song  was  composed  at  EUisland,  while 
his  wife  was  at  Mossgiel.  bonie,  beautiful,  merry,  good,  winsome.  29. 
row,  roll.     38.  shaw,  wood. 

Highland  Mary  (i  799 ;  written  1 792).  Burns  said  that  he  was  especially 
pleased  with  this  song  and  that  the  subject  of  it  was  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing episodes  of  his  youth.  Highland  Mary  is  the  Mary  Campbell  to  whom 
his  Highland  Lassie  and  To  Mary  in  Heaven  are  addressed.  Burns  said 
she  was  "  a  warm-hearted,  charming  young  creature  "  whom  he  had  loved 
ardently  and  had  hoped  to  marry.  She  died  suddenly  of  a  malignant  fever. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Clyde  sailor,  and  many  readers  of  Burns's  poetry 
have  come  to  regard  her  "  as  a  sort  of  bare-legged  Beatrice  —  a  Spiritual- 
ized Ideal  of  Peasant  Womanhood."  But  there  seems  to  be  insufficient 
basis  for  such  appreciation.  41.  braes,  hillsides.  44.  drumlie,  turbid. 
45.  simmer,  summer,  unfauld,  unfold.  49.  birk,  birch.  57.  mony, 
many.     66.  aft,  oft.     hae,  have.     Note  the  absence  of  true    rhymes    m 


642  NOTES   TO  BURNS 

these  lines  and  the  effect  of  the  hypercatalectic  endings  with  repetition  of 
sounds  (instead  of  rhymes).     See  Introduction,  §  20,  4. 

BoNiE  DooN  (1808  ;  written  1791).  There  are  three  versions  of  this 
song.  The  third  and  best  known  version  (i  792)  is  an  alteration  of  the  second 
version,  which  we  have  printed,  to  fit  it  for  the  tune  called  "  The  Caledo- 
nian Hunt's  Delight."  The  alteration  consisted  of  adding  two  syllables 
to  every  second  line.  The  second  version,  however,  is  poetically  superior 
to  the  third.  73.  The  first  line  of  the  third  version  reads,  "  Ye  banks  and 
braes  o'  bonie  Doon."  Doon.  The  river  Doon,  about  thirty  miles  in 
length,  falls  into  the  Firth  of  Clyde  two  miles  south  of  Ayr,  near  the  birth- 
place of  Bums,  bonie  :  see  above,  1.  27.  78.  bough,  —  pronounce  after 
the  Scottish  fashion,  to  rhyme  with  *  true.'  84.  wist,  knew.  85.  aft,  see 
above,  1.  66.     87.  ilka,  every.     91.  staw,  stole. 

Duncan  Gray  (1798  ;  written  1792).  "  Duncan  Gray,"  wrote  Burns, 
"  is  that  kind  of  lighthorse  gallop  of  an  air  which  precludes  sentiment.  The 
ludicrous  is  its  ruling  feature."  Founded  upon  an  older  song,  but  in  treat- 
ment highly  original,  this  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  Burns's  humorous 
songs.  94.  o't,  of  it.  95.  Yule,  Christmas  ;  see  Did.  fou,  full,  drunk. 
97.  coost,  cast.  98.  asklent,  askance,  unco  skeigh,  very  skittish.  99. 
gart,  made,  abeigh,  off.  loi.  fleech'd,  coaxed.  103.  Ailsa  Craig  (Crag)  : 
"  a  rocky  islet  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde,  opposite  Ayr,  much  frequented  by 
sea-fowl,  whose  screaming  it  has  endured  for  ages  without  remonstrance." 
105.  baith,  both.  106.  Wept  his  eyes  both  bleared  and  blind.  107. 
lowpin,  leaping,  linn,  waterfall.  109.  are  but  a  tide,  i.e.  ebb  and  flow. 
III.  sair  to  bide,  hard  to  abide,  endure.  114.  hizzie,  jade.  115.  gae,  go. 
123.  een,  eyes,  sic,  such.  130.  smoor'd,  smothered.  131.  crouse  and 
canty  baith,  hearty  and  jolly  both. 

Scots  Wha  Hae  (1794  ;  written  1793).  At  the  village  of  Bannockbum, 
three  miles  south  of  Stirlmg  in  Scotland,  on  June  24,  13 14,  thirty  thousand 
Scots  under  Robert  Bruce  totally  defeated  one  hundred  thousand  English 
under  Edward  II,  —  the  most  glorious  victory  in  the  many  wars  for  Scottish 
freedom.  In  July,  1793,  according  to  one  story.  Bums,  while  on  a  rainy-day 
walk  through  some  savage  and  desolate  district  of  Galloway,  composed  the 
intensely  patriotic  "  Scots  Wha  Hae,"  an  imaginary  address  of  Bmce  to  his 
followers  on  the  morning  of  the  battle.  According  to  another  account  the 
poem  was  written  a  little  later  in  the  same  year.  It  reflects  the  enthusiastic 
regard  of  the  poet,  so  he  teUs  us,  for  the  ancient  Scottish  victory,  intensified 
"  by  glowing  ideas  of  some  other  struggles  of  the  same  nature,  not  quite  so 
ancient,"  —  i.e.  the  French  Revolution.  The  stanza  is  that  of  Helen  of 
Kirkconnel,  a  ballad  that  Burns  despised.  One  critic  notes  that  "  in 
grammar,  style,  cast,  sentiment,  diction,  and  turn  of  phrase,  the  ode,  though 
here  and  there  its  spelling  deviates  into  Scots,  is  pure  eighteenth-century 
English."  But  the  stirring  heroism  of  the  speech  in  freedom's  cause  belongs 
to  every  age.  The  poem  is  one  of  the  most  forceful,  popular,  and  dramatic 
of  our  many  songs  of  liberty  and  independence.     133.     Wallace.     In  1297, 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT  643 

Sir  William  Walliice,  one  of  Scotland's  noblest  patriots  and  heroes,  defeated 
the  English  at  the  battle  of  Stirling  Bridge.  For  several  years  thereafter 
he  carried  on  war  against  England,  but  in  1305  he  was  betrayed,  taken  to 
London,  and  executed  for  treason.  138.  lour,  lower  ;  cf.  leer,  and  see  Diet. 
155.  Liberty's  in  every  blow.  This  battle  achieved  the  independence  of 
Scotland,  which  was  acknowledged  in  1328. 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That  (1795).  Burns  asserted,  probably  in 
ironic  reference  to  a  foolish  statement  of  a  contemporary  critic  that  love  and 
wine  were  the  only  themes  for  song-writing,  that  this  great  prophetic  song 
of  democracy  and  brotherhood  was  not  real  poetry  !  "  This  [song]  has 
probably  won  more  fame  for  Burns  beyond  the  seas  than  any  other  of  his 
writings,  and  it  has  been  translated  into  at  least  nirie  different  European 
languages.  At  the  time  it  was  written  the  Continent  was  in  commotion  ; 
the  democratic  opinions  pervading  France  had  extended  to  other  countries, 
and  the  mute  masses  had  found  a  voice."  The  refrain,  "  For  a'  that,  an'  a' 
that  "  (for  all  that,  and  all  that),  was  adopted  from  older  songs.  158. 
hings,  hangs.  163.  the  guinea's  stamp.  Rank  is  merely  the  indication 
of  real  worth,  like  the  stamp  on  a  coin  (guinea  ;  see  Diet.).  164.  gowd, 
gold.  The  man's  the  gold,  rank  or  no  rank,  stamp  or  no  stamp.  166. 
hodden-gray,  coarse  woollen  cldth.  173.  birkie,  smart,  or  conceited, 
fellow,  ca'd,  called.  176.  coof,  dolt.  178.  riband  (ribbon),  star, — 
insignia  of  nobility.  181- 182.  Cf.  Deserted  Village  (53-54).  183.  aboon, 
above.  184.  he  mauna  fa'  that,  he  cannot  pretend  to  (accomplish)  that. 
192.  bear  the  gree,  have  the  highest  honor,  the  first  place. 

A  Red,  Red  Rose  (1794).  This  love  song,  perhaps  the  most  universally 
popular  of  all  lyrics  of  its  kind,  was  made  up,  with  omissions,  alterations, 
and  original  additions,  from  an  old  song  Burns  knew  in  his  youth.  The 
idea  and  diction  are  so  very  simple,  natural,  and  inevitable  that,  as  some  one 
has  said,  the  reader  on  seeing  the  poem  for  the  first  time  imagines  he  has 
seen  it  before.  The  version  which  prefixes  an  "  O  "  to  the  first  and  third 
lines  was  the  product  of  an  editor. 

TO  a  mouse 

Written  1785.  i.  sleekit,  sleek.  4.  brattle,  hurry.  5.  laith,  loath. 
6.  pattle,  a  small  stick  for  cleaning  the  plough.  13.  whyles,  at  times.  15.  A 
daimen-icker  in  a  thrave,  an  occasional  ear  of  grain  in  twenty-four  sheaves, 
17.  lave,  rest.  20.  wa's,  walls.  21.  big,  build.  22.  foggage,  grass  or 
moss  remaining  through  the  winter.  24.  snell,  biting.  29.  coulter,  blade 
in  front  of  the  ploughshare.  34.  hald,  holding.  35.  thole,  endure.  36. 
cranreuch,  hoar-frost.     37.  no  thy  lane,  not  alone.     40.  a-gley,  awry. 

THE   cotter's  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

This  poem  was  written  in  1785,  when  Burns  was  on  the  farm  at  Mossgiel. 
As  a  simple  pastoral  idyl  it  is  not  excelled  by  many  poems  of  our  language. 
While  it  does  not  possess  the  delicacy  and  fire  of  some  of  the  shorter  lyrics,  it 


644  NOTES  TO  BURNS 

gives  noble  and  sincere  expression  to  what,  in  spite  of  his  frailties,  the  poet 
knew  to  be  a  true  ideal  of  Christian  manhood.  We  are  told  that  Burns  was 
led  to  write  this  poem  because  of  the  vivid  impression  made  upon  him  by  the 
nightly  family  worship  in  his  father's  household  —  an  experience  to  which  he 
had  been  accustomed  from  a  child.  As  his  brother  Gilbert  records,  Robert 
always  "  thought  there  was  something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase, 
'  Let  us  worship  God,'  used  by  a  decent,  sober  head  of  a  family,  introducing 
family  worship."  Burns's  father  belonged  to  the  class  of  which  the  poem 
treats,  and  was,  no  doubt,  to  a  very  considerable  extent,  the  original  from 
which  '  the  Cotter  '  was  drawn.  In  other  respects,  however,  the  picture, 
though  typical,  is  imaginary,  and  refers  to  thousands  of  other  Scotch  peasant 
famihes  as  well  as  to  'that  of  Burns. 

1-9.  Give  the  metre  and  rhyme  of  this  stanza.  See  Introduction, 
§  24,  5,  and  the  notes  on  Faerie  Queene.  i.  friend,  Robert  Aiken,  a  solicitor 
in  Ayr,  who  was  a  life-long  friend  and  patron  of  the  poet.  2.  No  mercenary 
bard:  cf.  note  to  Gray's  Elegy  (71-72).  5.  simple  Scottish  lays,  the 
humble  Ayrshire  dialect  which  Burns  has  immortalized.  The  word  *  lays  ' 
was  used  loosely  by  eighteenth-century  poets.     Cf.  Gray's  Elegy  (115). 

10-27.  10.  blaws,  blows.  The  Scotch  dialect  frequently  uses  a  in  place 
of  the  English  0.  wi',  with.  The  final  consonant  sound  is  regularly  omitted 
in  many  Scotch  words.  Cf.  o'  for  of ;  a'  for  all ;  an'  for  and ;  youthfu'  for 
youthful,  sugh,  sough:  see  Diet.  12.  frae,  from,  pleugh,  plough.  13. 
craws :  see  note  on  1.  10.  14.  Cotter,  the  inhabitant  of  a  cot.  See  note  on 
Deserted  Village  (10).  15.  moil,  toil  or  drudgery.  Look  up  derivation  and 
successive  meanings.  i8.  And  weary  .  .  .  bend:  cf.  Gray's  Elegy  (3). 
21-22.  Th'  .  .  ,  glee.  The  Scotch  dialect  seems  to  be  especially  adapted 
to  the  fit  expression  of  simple  home  life  and  its  emotions.  Try  to  turn  these 
words  into  English,  and  note  their  loss  in  effect.  21.  stacher,  toddle  with 
short  tottering  steps,  as  a  child.  22.  flichterin,  fluttering.  23.  wee  bit 
ingle,  cosy  httle  fire  or  fireplace  with  its  cheerful  blaze.  24.  wifie.  The 
ie  is  a  diminutive,  frequently  met  with  in  Scotch,  suggesting  endearment. 
26.  carking,  fretting  or  worrying.     27.  toil,  pronounced  tile. 

28-54.  28.  Belyve,  presently.  30.  ca',  drive,  herd,  herd  the  neighbors' 
cows,  tentie,  attentive.  33.  youthfu':  see  note  on  1.  10.  e'e,  eye.  34. 
braw,  fine,  handsome.  35.  deposite.  Note  accent  as  shown  by  rhythm. 
sair-won,  hard-earned.  38.  spiers,  asks,  inquires.  40.  uncos,  news  or 
unknown  happenings,  from  uncouth  (unknown).  See  note  on  VAlleg.  (5). 
44.  Gars  auld  claes,  makes  old  clothes,  amaist,  almost.  45.  a'  wi':  see 
note  on  1.  10.  46-54-  Their  .  .  .  aright,  the  father's  '  admonition  '  (45). 
47.  younkers,  youngsters.  48.  eydent,  diligent.  49-  jauk,  fool  away  their 
time.  SI.  duty.  The  word  here  evidently  refers  to  their  regular  morning 
and  evening  prayers.     Cf.  the  next  three  lines. 

<55-72.  59.  wily.  Explain  the  unusual  sense  in  which  this  word  is  used 
here.  62.  haflBlins,  half.  63.  Weel  .  .  .  rake.  Explain  this  hne  as  a 
happy  ending  to  the  little  drama  of  the  stanza.    64.  ben,  into  the  inner  or 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT  645 

living  room  —  one  of  the  two  rooms  of  the  typical  Scotch  cottage.  66.  no 
ill  ta'en.  Compare,  as  to  effect,  with  some  English  equivalent,  such  as  "  well 
received."  67.  cracks,  chats,  trying  to  make  the  youth  "  feel  at  home." 
kye,  cows.  69.  blate  an'  lathfu',  bashful  and  shy  or  sheepish.  70.  wiles : 
cf.  *  wily,'  1.  59.  72.  bairn,  another  word  inimitable  in  English.  Cf.  1.  28. 
lave,  rest,  i.e.  other  girls. 

73-90.  Compare  these  and  other  English  stanzas  of  the  poem  with  those 
of  the  Scotch  dialect.  Which  do  you  enjoy  the  more,  and  why?  75.  I've 
paced  .  .  .  round,  a  confession  of  the  poet,  only  too  true.  78.  cordial, 
heart-reviving  drink,  vale :  cf.  the  expression  "  vale  of  tears."  81.  thorn, 
the  white-thorn  or  hawthorn. 

91-117.  91.  board:  see ZJ/d.  for  the  history  of  this  word.  92.  hale- 
some  parritch,  wholesome  porridge,  probably  of  oatmeal.  93.  soupe,  milk. 
In  general  it  means  any  liquid  used  as  food,  hawkie,  cow.  94.  'yont  the 
hallan,  beyond  the  partition  wall,  where,  in  the  case  of  the  more  humble  cot- 
tages, the  cow  was  kept.  96.  weel-hained  kebbuck,  well-kept  cheese,  fell, 
sharp,  tasty.  98.  garrulous,  almost  over-talkative  in  her  attempt  to  be 
entertaining.  99.  towmond,  twelvemonth,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell,  since 
flax  was  in  full  blossom.  100.  supper,  a  nominative  absolute  before  a  par- 
ticiple. Cf.  the  ablative  absolute  in  Latin.  103.  ha'-Bible,  originally  the 
Bible  kept  in  the  "  hall  "  or  chief  room  of  the  house.  Later  the  term  came 
to  be  applied  to  the  large  family  Bible  of  every  household,  the  original  force, 
*  ha','  disappearing.  104.  bonnet,  the  blue  woollen  cap  of  the  Scotch 
peasant.  The  word  *  bonnet '  as  a  term  for  a  man's  head  covering,  though 
now  restricted  to  Scotland,  was  once  common  in  England.  Cf.  Lye.  (104)- 
105.  lyart  haffets  (half-heads),  gray  temples,  the  locks  about  his  temples 
being  mixed  with  gray.  106.  strains.  Determine  the  5301  tax.  The 
reference  seems  to  be  to  the  Psalms.  107.  wales,  selects  or  chooses.  108. 
Let  us  worship :  see  the  introduction  to  these  notes,  iii.  Dundee,  an  old 
Scottish  psalm  tune,  dating  from  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
112;  113.  Martyrs;  Elgin,  also  favorite  Scottish  psalm  tunes.  113.  beets, 
adds  fuel  to,  i.e.  the  psalm  feeds  the  flame  already  in  their  hearts.  114. 
lays:  see  note  on  1.  5.  115.  Compared  .  .  .  tame.  This  line  has  been 
sometimes  cited  to  illustrate  the  Scotch  prejudice  of  Bums.  However,  it 
seems  to  show  nothing  more  than  a  feeling  of  the  inadequacy  of  '  Italian 
trills  '  as  sacred  music.  The  poet  acknowledges  the  beauty  of  Italian  music 
in  the  expression  *  tickled  ears.' 

118-162.  119.  Abram  .  .  .  high:  see  Genesis  xv.  120-121.  Moses 
.  .  .  progeny.:  see  Exodus  xvii.  121.  Amalek,  the  tribe  that  attacked  the 
Israelites  in  the  desert.  122-123.  Or  how  ...  ire :  see  //  Samuel  ix. 
13-17.  122.  royal  bard,  David.  124.  Or  .  .  .  cry:  see /o&  iii.  125.  Or 
.  .  .  fire,  the  prophecies  in  the  book  of  Isaiah,     wild,  seraphic  fire.     Explain. 

126.  holy  seers,  the  Prophets,     tune  the  sacred  lyre.     Explain  the  figure. 

127.  Christian  volume,  the  New  Testament.  128-130.  How  .  .  .  head, 
Th&iowx Gospels.     131.   How  .  .  .  sped,  the  ^d^.     132.    The  precepts  .  .  . 


646  NOTES  TO  WORDSWORTH 

land,  the  various  Epistles.  133-135.  How  he  (St.  John)  .  .  .  command, 
the  book  of  Revelation.  See  especially  chap,  xviii.  133.  Patmos,  an  island 
in  the  Mediterranean^  whither  John  was  banished,  and  where  he  saw  the 
visions  recorded  in  Revelation.  135.  Bab'lon's  doom.  This  has  been  in- 
terpreted to  signify  the  downfall  of  injustice  and  oppression,  evils  which 
were  notoriously  characteristic  of  Babylon.  Observe  that  in  these  two 
stanzas  the  poet  gives  a  running  sketch  of  the  whole  content  of  the  Scrip- 
tures. 138.  Hope  .  o  .  wing.  The  poet  is  loosely  quoting  this  line  from 
Pope's  Windsor  Forest.  140.  uncreated  rays.  Meaning?  144.  circling 
Time.  Explain.  150.  sacerdotal  stole.  Lopk  up  these  words,  and  explain. 
156.  parent-pair,  a  quaint  and  expressive  term. 

163-189.  165.  Princes  .  .  .  kings:  cf. Deserted  Village  {5 ^-$4) — lines 
which  Burns  probably  had  in  mind.  i66.  An-  .  .  .  God.  This  famous  Hne 
is  from  Pope's  Essay  on  Man.  167.  certes,  an  archaic  word,  meaning  truly- 
176-177.  And  .  .  .  vile,  cf.  with  Goldsmith's  arraignment  of  luxury  in  the 
Deserted  Village.  180.  And  .  .  .  isle.  Explain  this  fine  figure.  182.  Wal- 
lace, one  of  the  Scottish  national  heroes,  leader  of  the  Scots  when  they  tried 
to  gain  their  freedom  in  1297.  See  note  on  Scots  Wha  Hae.  i88.  still, 
ever,  always  patriot-bard :  cf.  with  this  hopeful  prayer  the  despondency  of 
Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village,  where  he  sees  poetry  leaving  the  land. 

WORDSWORTH 

TINTERN   ABBEY 

This  poem  shares  with  the  Ancient  Mariner  the  distinction  of  forming  by 
far  the  most  noteworthy  portion  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  It  is  not  only  one 
of  the  best  poems  Wordsworth  ever  v/rote,  but  is,  in  the  opinion  of  many 
critics,  one  of  the  best  poems  ever  written.  Professor  Saintsbury,  in  his  His- 
tory of  English  Literature,  expresses  this  opinion  as  follows  :  "  Perhaps  twice 
only,  in  Tintern  A  bbey  and  in  the  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality,  is 
the  full,  the  perfect  Wordsworth  with  his  half-pantheistic  worship  of  nature, 
informed  and  chastened  by  an  intense  sense  of  human  conduct,  of  reverence, 
and  almost  of  humbleness,  displayed  in  the  utmost  poetic  felicity.  And 
these  two  are  accordingly  among  the  great  poems  of  the  world.  No  un- 
favorable criticism  on  either  has  hurt  them,  though  it  may  have  hurt  the 
critics.  They  are,  if  not  in  every  smallest  detail,  yet  as  a  whole,  invulner- 
able and  unperishable.     They  could  riot  be  better  done." 

Wordsworth  has  this  to  say  concerning  the  composition  of  Tintern  Abbey: 
"  No  poem  of  mine  was  composed  under  circumstances  more  pleasant  for  me 
to  remember  than  this.  I  began  it  upon  leaving  Tintern,  after  crossing  the 
Wye,  and  concluded  it  just  as  I  was  entering  Bristol  in  the  evening,  after  a 
ramble  of  four  or  five  days  with  my  sister.  Not  a  line  of  it  was  altered,  and 
not  any  part  of  it  written  down  till  I  reached  Bristol.  It  was  published  al- 
most immediately  after  "  —  (in  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798). 

As  will  be  noted,  the  poem  is  in  blank  verse.    Since  there  are  no  stanzaic 


TINTERN  ABBEY  647 

or  "paragraph"  divisions  to  distinguish  units  of  thought  —  such  as  are 
found  in  the  blank  verse  of  Milton,  Thomson,  or  Tennyson  —  we  have 
attempted  in  these  notes  to  indicate  the  natural  divisions. 

1-22.  I.  Five  years.  From  this  we  may  determine  the  poet's  age  on  his 
former  visit  to  the  Wye.  3-4-  These  waters  .  .  .  springs.  The  Wye  rises 
near  Mt.  Plinlinmion  in  Wales,  and  flows  south  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles 
into  the  Severn.  Tintem  Abbey  is  a  famous  ruin  in  Monmouthshire.  Note 
the  onomatopoeia  in  these  lines.  5-8.  cliffs  .  .  .  sky.  Describe  the 
picture.  12.  this  season,  July.  16-22.  farms  .  .  .  alone.  Note  how  the 
seclusion  is  accentuated  by  details  of  description.  16.  sportive  wood. 
Why '  sportive  '  ?  , 

22-49.  Wordsworth  shows  how  the  memory  of  his  former  visit  has  in- 
fluenced him  during  the  past  five  years  :  (i)  11.  25-30  ;  (2)  11.  30-35  ;  (3) 
11.  35-49.  24.  As  .  .  .  eye.  Explain.  29.  purer  mind.  WTiat  does  this 
mean  ?  30.  feelings.  Syntax  ?  What  are  '  feelings  of  unremembered 
pleasure,'  and  how  are  they  like  '  unremembered  acts,'  1.  34  ?  38-40. 
In  which  .  .  .  world.  What  is  the  mood  of  these  lines  ?  In  what  sense 
is  the  world  '  unintelligible  '  ?  42.  affections,  the  emotional  in  man  as  con- 
trasted mth  the  more  coldly  intellectual.  43-49-  the  breath  .  .  .  things. 
This  may  be  described  as  a  state  of  spiritual  yet  mystical  exaltation  —  a 
state  in  which  the  soul  of  man  seems  to  rise  above  its  bodily  limitations  and 
come  into  direct  communion  with  the  Divine,  so  that  the  mysteries  of  life 
are  solved.  The  remembrance  of  the  '  beauteous  forms  '  of  nature,  the  poet 
claims,  leads  him  into  this  '  blessed  mood.'  Consider  carefully  the  fitness  of 
the  imagery  here  and  elsewhere  in  the  poem,  and  determine  the  names  of  the 
poetic  figures.     (See  Introductiox,  §  8.) 

49-57.  The  solace  received  from  memories  of  the  Wye.  51-52.  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight.     To  what  does  this  refer  ? 

58-65.  60.  sad  perplexity,  as  he  tries  to  make  the  actual  scene  before 
him  conform  to  his  memory-pictures  of  the  past  five  years.  64-65.  life  .  .  . 
years.     Explain,  in  the  light  of  the  poet's  former  experience. 

65-83.  His  attitude  toward  nature  at  the  time  of  his  former  visit.  De- 
scribe it.  On  Lhe  poetic  use  of  memory-images,  see  Introduction,  §§  6 ;  7. 
Exemplify  here.  65.  so,  refers  to  what  ?  73-74-  The  coarser  .  .  .  gone 
by.  In  this  parenthesis  is  hinted  a  still  earlier  attitude  toward  nature  —  the 
boy's  animal  joy  in  mere  living.  75-80.  To  me  .  .  .  love.  Then  the 
passion  for  nature  was  entirely  sensuous — full  of  '  aching  joys '  in  the  sights 
and  sounds  about  him.  81-82.  remoter  .  .  .  supplied.  A  suggestion  of  the 
poet's  present  and  maturer  attitude  toward  nature. 

83-102.  The  recompense  for  having  lost  his  former  '  dizzy  raptures.* 
-Cf.  the  similar  passage  in  the  Ode  on  Immortality  (176-187).  88-93.  For 
.  .  .  subdue.  Explain  this  first  compensatory  gift.  With  the  last  three 
lines  cf.  11.  184-185  of  the  Ode.  91.  The  still,  sad  piusic  of  humanity  :  see 
Introduction,  §  34,  on  poetic  touchstones;  point  out  others  in  this  poem, 
justifying  your  choice.     93-102.    The  second  and  greater  of  the  *  gifts  *  (86). 


648  NOTES   TO  WORDSWORTH 

Through  nature  and  in  nature  the  poet  sees  God.  An  eloquent  and  artistic 
exposition  of  pantheism,  a  doctrine  that  strongly  attracted  Wordsworth  in  his 
earlier  years.  God's  dwelling  is  in  nature  and  '  in  the  mind  of  man,'  i.e. 
these  things  are  but  different  expressions  of  God  ;  the  totality  of  them  is 
God.  The  poet  seems  to  have  still  held  to  this  belief,  though  in  a  somewhat 
modified  form,  when  he  wrote  the  Ode  on  Immortality.  100.  A  motion:  and  a 
spirit.  Syntax,  and  significance  of  the  words  ?  10 1.  thinking  things,  *  the 
mind  of  man,'  1.  99.     objects  of  all  thought,  e.g.  nature. 

102-111.  102.  still.  Does  this  mean  always  or  even  yet  ?  106- 
107.  both  .  .  .  perceive.  The  poet  here  defines  his  conception  of  nature. 
It  is  partly  material,  yet  partly  ideal  —  projected  from  his  mind,  created  by 
his  '  eye  and  ear.'  Though  partly  objective  it  is  also  partly  subjective. 
Nature  is  not  the  same  to  all  beholders,  because  they  "  see  it  with  diiBferent 
eyes."  107-in.  well  pleased  .  .  .  being.  Explain  carefully  each  of  these 
metaphors,  showing  in  what  sense  nature  is  '  anchor,'  '  nurse,'  '  guide,' 
*  guardian,'  '  soul  of  moral  being.' 

111-134.  But  even  if  the  poet  were  without  the  comfort  of  these 
maturer  thoughts,  he  would  still  be  able  to  call  back  his  former  pleasures, 
through  the  companionship  and  inspiration  of  his  sister.  112.  To  what 
does  'thus'  refer?  115.  dearest  Friend.  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  who 
devoted  her  whole  life  to  helping  and  inspiring  her  brother.  She  was  herself 
a  woman  of  fine  intellect  and  real  poetic  insight.  121-134.  and  this  .  .  . 
blessings.  What  blessings  does  the  poet  feel  that  nature  is  able  to  confer, 
and  against  what  can  she  make  us  proof  ? 

134-159.  134.  Therefore.  What  thoughts  does  this  word  recall  ? 
137-139.  in  after  years  .  .  .  pleasure.  Describe  Wordsworth's  sister  in 
the  light  of  these  lines,  and  of  11.  116-119.  140.  mansion,  in  its  radical 
sense  (Lat.  manere).  148-149.  gleams  Of  past  existence,  i.e.  the  poet's  own 
former  existence  :  see  11.  1 16-120.  149-159.  wilt  .  .  .  sake.  Note  the 
peaceful  conclusion.     In  this  respect  cf.  Lye.  (186-193)  and  note, 

ODE    ON    INTIMATIONS     OF    IMMORTALITY    FROM    RECOLLECTIONS    OF    EARLY 

CHILDHOOD 

This  poem,  in  many  respects  the  greatest  of  English  odes,  was  written, 
partly  in  1803  and  partly  in  1806,  during  Wordsworth's  residence  at  Gras- 
mere.  The  difficulty  of  the  poem  is  in  part  due  to  profundity,  but  more  to 
the  fact  that  it  is  the  record  of  experiences  and  reasonings  shared  by  few 
besides  the  writer  himself.  In  speaking  of  this  poem,  Wordsworth  says  : 
"  Nothing  was  more  difficult  for  me  in  childhood  than  to  admit  the  notion  of 
death  as  a  state  applicable  to  my  own  being.  I  used  to  brood  over  the  stories 
of  Enoch  and  Elijah,  and  almost  persuade  myself  that,  whatever  might  be- 
come of  others,  I  should  be  translated  in  something  of  the  same  way  to 
heaven.  .  .  .  With  a  feeling  congenial  to  this,  I  was  often  unable  to  think 
of  external  things  as  having  external  existence,  and  I  communed  with  all  I  saw 
as  something  not  apart  from,  but  inherent  in,  my  own  immaterial  nature. 


ODE  ON  IMMORTALITY  649 

Many  times  while  going  to  school  have  I  grasped  at  a  wall  or  a  tree  to  recall 
myself  from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the  reality." 

The  poet  then  takes  this  feeling  of  his  childhood,  which  he  professes  to 
believe  all  other  children  share,  as  a  proof,  or  at  least  as  '  intimation,' 
of  an  eternity  of  the  soul's  existence,  not  only  beyond  this  life,  but  also 
previous  to  its  so-called  "  birth  "  into  this  earthly  phase  of  its  being.  The 
soul  which  enters  the  body  of  the  babe  has  come  direct  from  heaven  ;  it 
remembers  its  former  home  ;  and  this  accounts,  according  to  Wordsworth, 
for  the  child's  instinctive  attitude  toward  nature,  —  the  handiwork  of  God. 
The  soul,  moreover,  after  its  earthly  existence,  is  destined  to  go  back  to  that 
heaven  whence  it  came  ;  and  thus  is  explained  the  poet's  early  instinctive 
attitude  toward  death. 

I.  What  two  experiences  are  suggested  in  this  stanza  ?  4.  celestial  light, 
because  the  soul  was  fresh  from  God. 

II.  Show  the  relation  between  this  stanza  and  the  latter  half  of  Stanza  I. 
16.  glorious  birth.  What  does  this  mean  as  applied  to  the  sunshine  ?  18. 
there  hath  passed.     What  is  this  glory  that  has  passed  away  ? 

III.  A  stanza  in  which  the  poet  proceeds  upon  the  theory  that  he  has 
only  imagined  the  loss  recited  in  Stanza  II.  In  this  stanza  and  the  first  four- 
teen lines  of  the  next  he  tries  to  convince  himself  that  nature  means  the 
same  to  him  as  she  has  always  meant  ;  that  he  understands  and  appreciates 
her  as  fully  as  he  has  ever  done.  22.  a  thought  of  grief.  Expressed  in 
11.  9  and  17-18.  23.  timely  utterance.  This  '  utterance  '  is  found  in  11.  24-51. 
24.  I  again  am  strong,  i.e.  I  am  determined  to  convince  myself  that  I  am 
strong.  25.  The  .  .  .  steep.  Explain  this  fine  line,  showing  its  effect  upon 
the  poet's  fresh  determination.  28-36.  The  Winds  .  .  .  boy.  Discuss  the 
metrical  effect  of  these  lines.  Note  how  they  rise  to  a  metrical  climax  coinci- 
dent with  the  course  of  the  poet's  endeavor  to  persuade  himself  that  nature 
is  still  to  him  what  she  used  to  be.  What  is  meant  by  the  '  fields  of  sleep,' 
1.  28  ? 

rV.  W^hat  does  the  poet  continue  to  do  in  the  first  half  of  this  stanza  ? 
See  note  on  Stanza  III  ;  but  observe  that  the  very  repetitions  found  in  11.  24, 
26,  40-41,  42,  and  51  indicate  that  he  is  more  than  half-conscious  of  the 
futility  of  his  attempt  to  convince  himself.  51.  I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I 
hear.  But  just  as  he  reaches  this  second  climax  of  an  attempt  that  he  knows 
is  in  defiance  of  his  better  wisdom,  his  eye  happens  to  rest  on  a  specific 
tree,  a  field,  a  pansy.  52-58.  But  .  .  .  dream.  The  moment  of  disillusion. 
While  talking  of  nature  in  general  he  has  been  able  to  keep  up  his  self- 
deception  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  looks  upon  this  and  the  other  definite  object 
that  his  eyes  have  beheld  in  childhood,  he  is  forced  to  admit  that  his  '  timely 
utterance  '  has  been  in  vain  ;  that  now  he  sees  no  longer  with  the  direct 
vision  of  childhood,  but  as  "  through  a  glass,  darkly."  57.  visionary  gleam. 
Does  this  refer  to  11.  24-50  or  to  the  visions  of  youth,  which  now  are  gone  ? 
Discuss.  58.  the  glory  and  the  dream.  Discuss  as  above.  Also  decide 
whether  '  glory  '  and  '  dream  '  refer  to  the  same  or  to  different  things. 


650  NOTES  TO  WORDSWORTH 

[Thus  far  the  poet  had  presented  his  problem  :  What  has  become  of  the 
experiences  of  my  childhood  ?  Why  have  they  passed  from  me  ?  The  stu- 
dent must  bear  in  mind  that  at  this  point  the  poem  was  laid  aside  for  over 
two  years.  The  added  stanzas  present  a  solution  of  the  problem  stated  in 
the  preceding  stanzas.  Re-read  the  introduction  to  these  notes,  and  en-, 
deavor  to  comprehend  the  very  explicit  title  of  the  poem,  Intimations  of 
Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood.] 

V.  Here  is  pictured  the  gradual  fading  of  the  glories,  the  disappearance 
of  which  had  been  lamented  in  the  earlier  portion  of  the  poem.  59.  Our 
.  .  .  forgetting.  The  philosophy  of  the  poem  is  succinctly  stated  in  this 
line  ;  but  '  birth  '  must  be  understood,  not  as  the  moment  of  entering  this 
world,  but  as  the  whole  process  of  becoming  "  of  the  world  "  —  the  develop- 
ment from  our  physical  birth  to  our  maturity.  The  rest  of  the  stanza  is  but 
an  expansion,  in  detail,  of  its  first  line.  60.  our  life's  Star.  Why  is  our  soul 
thus  designated  ?  67-77.  Heaven  .  .  .  day.  Note  the  four  stages  of  our 
development,  and  the  gradual  disappearance  of  the  '  clouds  of  glory.' 
Discuss,  in  this  and  the  other  stanzas,  the  fitness  of  the  poetic  figures,  and 
determine  their  kinds.  The  student  of  poetic  discrimination  will  find  here 
and  elsewhere  in  the  ode  noble  examples  of  the  "  touchstone  "  or  inevitable 
line.     Discover  and  discuss  :  see  Introduction,  §  34. 

VI.  A  hint  at  an  explanation  of  how  we  have  come  to  throw  away  so 
precious  an  inheritance.  But  Earth  does  not  act  thus  through  carelessness, 
or  through  a  wilful  desire  to  thv/art  our  highest  happiness.  She  knows  noth- 
ing of  these  visions,  can  know  nothing  of  them  ;  and  so,  after  her  own  stand- 
ards of  happiness,  blunderingly,  yet  not  without  tenderness,  she  tries  to  give 
pleasure  to  the  child  intrusted  to  her  care. 

Vn.  Simply  an  expansion  of  Stanza  VI.  Earth's  method  of  weaning  her 
foster-child  from  his  divine  inheritance  is  by  interesting  him  in  phases  of  her 
own  existence.  By  imitating  these,  he  inevitably  grows  into  and  becomes 
a  part  of  the  world  and  its  conventionalities.  87.  A  six  years'  Darling. 
Wordsworth  took  as  the  model  for  the  pictures  of  this  stanza  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge, the  little  son  of  his  friend,  the  poet,  pigmy.  Look  up  derivation. 
91-108.  See  .  .  .  imitation.  Is  it  true  that  we  tend  to  become  that  which 
we  imitate  ;  and,  if  so,  what  bearing  does  this  fact  have  upon  the  problem 
of  the  poem  ?  104.  "  humorous  stage"  :  "  stage  on  which  are  exhibited  the 
humors  of  mankind  ;  that  is,  according  to  the  Elizabethan  sense  of  the  word, 
their  whuns,  follies,  caprices,  odd  manners"  (Hales).  Cf.  Ben  Jonson's 
use  of  the  word  in  the  title.  Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 

VTII.  Notice  to  whom  the  apostrophe  of  these  lines  is  addressed  as  indi- 
cated in  the  latter  half  of  the  stanza.  109-110.  Thou  .  .  .  immensity. 
How  does  his  '  exterior  semblance  '  '  belie  '  his  *  soul's  immensity  '  ?  in. 
best  Philosopher.  In  what  sense  is  he  this  ?  112.  heritage.  What  is  the 
heritage  which  he  still  keeps  ?  Eye  among  the  blind.  Explain.  113.  deaf 
and  silent.  Give  the  syntax  and  the  significance  of  these  words.  114- 
Haunted.     What  does  this  modify?     113-114.  eternal  deep  .  .  .  eternal 


ODE  ON  IMMORTALITY  651 

mind.  What  is  meant  by  these  ?  116.  do  rest.  Note  the  force  of  this. 
To  him  a  heritage  of  eternal  truth  has  descended,  which,  when  lost,  no  life- 
time of  thought  or  labor  can  replace.  Why,  then  (124-129),  is  he  so  willing 
to  give  up  this  birthright  for  the  "  mess  of  pottage  "  which  the  world  offers  ? 
118'.  lost.  What  does  this  modify  ?  of  the  grave,  i.e.  total  or  absolute 
'darkness.  120.  Broods  .  .  .  Slave.  Explain  the  simile  and  the  metaphor. 
124.  provoke,  in  its  radical  sense  (Lat.  pro,  iorth  -\-  vocare,  to  call). 

IX.  Note  again  the  title  of  the  poem,  since  the  title  expresses  that  for 
which  this  stanza  is  a  song  of  thankfulness.  The  poet  has,  it  is  true,  forever 
lost '  the  glory  and  the  dream  '  of  his  childhood  ;  but  in  the  recollection  that 
this  glory  had  once  been  his,  he  has  attained  to  a  truth  far  more  precious  than 
the  unreasoning  possession  of  his  former  memories,  heaven-derived  though 
they  were.  He  has  learned  that  truth  possesses  value  just  in  proportion  as  it 
is  worked  out  through  reason  ;  that  this  is  growth,  and  growth  is  what  makes 
life  worth  living.  130.  embers,  our  adult  years.  136.  most  worthy.  Not 
a  superlative  here.  It  means  very  worthy  ;  worthy  enough  in  its  way. 
142-143.  obstinate  questionings  Of  sense  :  see  introduction  to  these  notes, 
where  the  poet  tells  his  own  experience.  147.  High  instincts.  Show  how 
these  also  are  '  intimations  of  immortality.'  152.  the  fountain  light  of 
all  our  day.  In  what  sense  ?  154-156.  make  .  .  .  Silence,  '  to  make  our 
noisy  years  '  (why  '  noisy  '  ?)  seem  only  moments  when  compared  with  the 
eternal  life  of  the  soul — thus  tending  to  prove  immortality.  162-168. 
Hence  .  .  .  evermore.  Hence  in  these,  our  later  years,  though  the  visions 
of  our  childhood  are  gone  forever,  our  souls,  by  reasonings  based  on  memories 
of  the  former  existence  of  those  visions,  '  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
which  brought  us  hither.'  As  far  as  the  argument  is  concerned,  this  may  be 
regarded  as  the  end  of  the  poem. 

X.  Observe  the  return  to  the  theme  of  the  opening  stanzas.  Note  the 
firmer  and  surer  tone  now  that  all  temptation  toward  self-delusion  has  passed. 
The  poet  can  afford  now  to  admit  his  loss,  since  he  has  found  for  it  rich  com- 
pensation. Indeed,  it  is  really  no  loss  ;  for  *  WTiat  has  been  must  ever  be  ' 
is  the  lesson  of  the  '  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind.' 

XI.  Still  in  reference  to  the  opening  stanzas,  showing  the  poet's  attitude 
toward  nature  in  his  later  life.  Note  the  tone  of  quiet  reflection,  marking  the 
end  of  the  spiritual  struggle  and  suggested  by  the  smooth  pentameter  line. 
How  does  the  metre  of  this  stanza  compare  with  that  of  preceding  stanzas  ? 
Look  up,  in  the  Introduction  to  this  book  (§§  25 ;  30,'  2),  the  subject  of  the 
ode.  190.  Yet,  even  now,  as  truly  as  before.  191-192.  delight  .  .  .  sway. 
What '  delight '  does  he  mean,  and  in  what  sense  has  he  come  under  a  '  more 
habitual  sway  '  ?  200.  race,  contest  on  the  race  course  ;  against  what,  and 
what  palms  of  victory  has  he  won  ?  201-204.  Thanks  .  .  .  tears.  Note 
the  gentle  cadence  of  the  verses  with  which  this  true  poet  and  lover  of  nature 
in  its  deeper  and  holier  meanings  brings  this  poem  of  stress  to  a  close.  The 
last  two  lines  are  an  example  of  the  poetic  touchstone,  to  be  carefully  con- 
sidered and  never  forgotten.    See  Introduction,  §  34. 


652  NOTES  TO  WORDSWORTH 


MY  HEART  LEAPS   UP   WHEN  I   BEHOLD 

Written  at  Grasmere,  1802,  about  a  year  before  the  Ode  was  begun. 
Wordsworth  prefixed  the  last  three  lines  to  the  Ode  as  a  sort  of  motto .: 
explain  the  relation  in  ideas.  Here  the  poet  expresses  the  wish  that  he  may 
never  lose  the  feeling  of  reverent  exaltation  ( = '  natural  piety  '  in  the  last 
line)  with  which  he  has  always  witnessed  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  nature, 

THE   SOLITARY  REAPER 

Not  a  record  of  actual  experience,  but  suggested  by  something  the  poet 
had  read  ;  classified  with  the  poems  of  1803.  16.  Hebrides  :  a  group  of 
islands  west  of  Scotland,  noted  for  picturesque  scenery.  Can  you  see  in 
these  lines  the  Wordsworth  of  Tintern  Abbey  and  the  Ode?  Can  you  detect 
any  '  Coleridgean  '  lines  ?  By  what  art  does  Wordsworth  render  this  simple 
scene  very  beautiful,  very  significant  ? 

I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

Written  at  Grasmere,  1804.  Wordsworth's  note  to  the  poem  is  as 
follows  :  "  The  daffodils  grew  and  still  grow  on  the  margin  of  Ulls water, 
and  probably  may  be  seen  to  this  day  as  beautiful  in  the  month  of  March, 
nodding  their  golden  heads  beside  the  dancing  and  foaming  waves."  For 
the  idea  of  the  last  stanza  see  Tintern  Abbey,  11.  23-49.  Lines  21-22  were 
composed  by  Wordsworth's  wife  ;  he  thought  they  were  the  best  in  the 
poem. 

THE   REVERIE   OF   POOR   SUSAN 

Written  in  1797.  "This  arose  out  of  my  observation  of  the  affecting 
music  of  these  birds  hanging  in  this  way  in  the  London  streets  during  the 
freshness  and  stillness  of  the  spring  morning."  The  mention  of  Cheapside 
in  1.  8,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  important  thoroughfares  of  London, 
shows  that  of  the  four  Wood  streets  in  London  that  in  question  runs  south 
into  Cheapside  a  little  less  than  half  way  from  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  to  the 
Bank  of  England.  Lothbury  runs  in  back  of  the  Bank,  and  its  extension, 
Gresham  Street,  crosses  Wood  Street. 


See  the  previous  discussions  of  the  form  and  history  of  the  sonnet  in  the 
Introduction,  §§  26 ;  30,  6,  in  the  account  of  sixteenth-century  poetry,  and 
in  the  notes  on  the  sonnet  under  Milton. 

The  first  place  among  English  sonnet  writers  may  safely  be  assigned  to 
Wordsworth.  Not  only  has  he  surpassed  others  in  the  number  which  he  has 
written  —  between  four  and  five  hundred  —  but  he  has  also  produced  some 
which  have  rarely,  if  ever,  been  excelled.  During  the  eighteenth  century  the 
sonnet  had  been  almost  altogether  neglected,  and  it  is  largely  to  Wordsworth 
that  its  rehabilitation  is  due. 


SONNETS  653 

London,  1802 
This  sonnet  on  Milton  was  named  (as  was  often  the  practice  of  Words- 
worth) from  the  place  and  time  of  its  composition.  In  dignity  of  expression 
it  is  not  unlike  some  of  the  best  sonnets  of  Milton  himself.  The  octave  ex- 
presses a  dissatisfaction  with  the  condition  of  England,  to  which  Words- 
worth frequently  gave  utterance.  The  sestet  evidences  a  fine  appreciation 
of  the  solitary  grandeur  and  the  steadfast  devotion  to  duty  which  constitute 
the  personality  of  Milton. 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September  3,  1802 

In  this  sonnet  the  poet  treats  of  the  great  city  almost  as  if  it  were  an 
object  of  nature.  The  octave  is  made  up  of  a  simple  objective  description  of 
the  scene  before  him.  The  sestet  is  more  subjective,  giving  the  mood  arising 
from  this  survey.  Where  is  the  theme  of  this  sonnet  first  announced  or 
suggested  ?  What  attributes  of  the  scene  before  the  poet  most  strongly 
move  him  ?  What  emotions  are  raised  and  developed  in  the  sonnet,  and 
where  is  the  climax  of  emotion  ?     What  is  the  '  heart '  in  1.  14  ? 

It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and  Free 

Wordsworth  says  of  this  sonnet  that  it  was  "  composed  upon  the  beach 
near  Calais  in  the  autumn  of  1802."  It  is  certainly  in  some  respects  one  of 
the  finest  he  ever  wrote.  The  octave  is  descriptive  ;  the  sestet  brings  in  the 
human  element.  Point  out  the  biblical  allusions  and  show  their  application. 
Compare  1.  14  with  1.  67  of  the  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality,  and 
from  this  starting-point  compare  the  sestet  with  the  similar  thought  de- 
veloped in  the  Ode. 

The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us  * 
This  sonnet,  written  in  1806,  is  in  many  respects  an  echo  of  Tintern 
Abbey,  in  which  we  find  its  heart-sick  weariness  with  the  '  fretful  stir  un- 
profitable, and  the  fever  of  the  world.'  It  will  be  noted  that  there  is  here  a 
less  distinct  separation  between  octave  and  sestet  than  in  the  other  sonnets. 
In  the  octave  the  poet  shows  how  we  have  wantonly  put  ourselves  out  of 
harmony  with  nature.  In  the  sestet  he  suggests  a  superior  excellence  in  the 
simple  creed  of  the  Greeks.  What  are  the  meaning  and  the  syntax  of '  sordid 
boon  '  (4)  ?  Explain  the  figures  of  speech  in  this  sonnet,  and  classify  them. 
For  'Proteus'  and  'Triton'  (13  and  14),  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  56. 
Whether  Wordsworth  really  means  what  he  says  in  11.  9-10  is  worth  con- 
sideration. 

COLERIDGE 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

Both  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  have  left  circumstantial  accounts  of 
the  origin  of  The  Ancient  Mariner  and  the  general  plan  of  the  Lyrical 


654  NOTES  TO  COLERIDGE 

Ballads,  in  which  the  poem  first  appeared.  The  importance  of  Coleridge's 
poem  and  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  as  a  whole  justifies  a  somewhat  extended 
quotation  from  each  poet. 

In  his  Biographia  Literaria  Coleridge  says  :  "  During  the  first  year  that 
Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  were  neighbors,  our  conversations  turned  frequently 
on  the  two  cardinal  points  of  poetry  :  the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy 
of  the  reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and  the  power  of 
giving  the  interest  of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colors  of  imagination.  The 
sudden  charm  which  accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which  moonlight  or  sun- 
set diffused  over  a  known  and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the 
practicability  of  combtning  both.  These  are  the  poetry  of  nature.  The 
thought  suggested  itself  (to  which  of  us  I  do  not  recollect)  that  a  series  of 
poems  might  be  composed  of  two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents 
were  to  be  in  part,  at  least,  supernatural  ;  and  the  excellence  aimed  at  was  to 
consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affections  by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emo- 
tions as  would  naturally  accompany  such  situations,  supposing  them  real. 
And  real  in  this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  human  being,  who,  from  what- 
ever source  of  delusion,  has  at  any  time  believed  himself  under  supernatural 
agency.  For  the  second  class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life  ; 
the  characters  and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  found  in  every  village 
and  its  vicinity  where  there  is  a  meditative  and  feeling  mind  to  seek  after 
them,  or  to  notice  them  when  they  present  themselves. 

"  In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  which  it  was 
agreed  that  my  endeavors  should  be  directed  to  persons  and  characters  super- 
natural, or  at  least  romantic  ;  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  a 
human  interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth,  sufficient  to  procure  for  these 
shadows  of  imagination  that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief,  for  the  moment, 
which  constitutes  poetic  faith.  .  .  .  With  this  view  I  wrote  The  Ancient 
Mariner.'^ 

Of  The  Ancient  Mariner  Wordsworth  has  said  :  "  In  reference  to  this 
poem  I  will  here  mention  one  of  the  most  noticeable  facts  in  my  own  poetic 
history  and  that  of  Mr.  Coleridge.  In  the  autumn  of  1 797,  he,  my  sister,  and 
myself  started  from  Alfoxden  pretty  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  a  view  to  visit 
Lintoun  and  the  Valley  of  Stones  near  to  it ;  and  as  our  united  funds  were 
very  small,  we  agreed  to  defray  the  expense  of  the  tour  by  writing  a  poem  to 
be  sent  to  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  set  up  by  Phillips  the  bookseller,  and 
edited  by  Dr.  Aiken.  Accordingly,  we  set  off,  and  proceeded  along  the 
Quantock  Hills  toward  Watchet,  and  in  the  course  of  this  walk  was  planned 
the  poem  of  The  Ancient  Mariner,  founded  on  a  dream,  as  Mr.  Coleridge 
said,  of  his  friend  Mr.  Cruikshank.  Much  the  greatest  part  of  the  story  was 
Mr.  Coleridge's  invention;  but  certain  parts  I  suggested;  for  example,  some 
crime  was  to  be  committed  which  should  bring  upon  the  Old  Navigator,  as 
Coleridge  afterwards  delighted  to  call  him,  the  spectral  persecution,  as  a  con- 
sequence of  that  crime  and  his  own  wanderings.  I  had  been  reading  in 
Shelvocke's  Voyages  a  day  or  two  before,  that,  while  doubling  Gape  Horn 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER  655 

they  frequently  saw  Albatrosses  in  that  latitude,  the  largest  sort  of  sea-fowl, 
some  extending  their  wings  twelve  or  thirteen  feet.  '  Suppose,'  said  I,  '  you 
represent  him  as  having  killed  one  of  these  birds  on  entering  the  South  Sea, 
and  that  the  tutelary  spirits  of  these  regions  take  upon  them  to  avenge  the 
crime.'  The  incident  was  thought  fit  for  the  purpose,  and  adopted  accord- 
ingly. I  also  suggested  the  navigation  of  the  ship  by  the  dead  men,  but  do 
not  recollect  that  I  had  anything  more  to  do  with  the  scheme  of  the  poem. 
The  gloss  with  which  it  was  subsequently  accompanied  was  not  thought  of  by 
either  of  us  at  the  time,  at  least  not  a  hint  of  it  was  given  to  me,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  it  was  a  gratuitous  afterthought.  We  began  the  composition  to- 
gether, on  that  to  me  memorable  evening  ;  I  furnished  two  or  three  lines  at 
the  beginning  of  the  poem,  in  particular  :  — 

"  '  And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will.' 

These  trifling  contributions,  all  but  one,  which  Mr.  C.  has  with  unnecessary 
scrupulosity  recorded,  slipped  out  of  his  mind,  as  well  they  might.  As  we 
endeavored  to  proceed  conjointly  (I  speak  of  the  same  evening),  our  respec- 
tive manners  proved  so  widely  different  that  it  would  have  been  quite  pre- 
sumptuous in  me  to  do  anything  but  separate  from  an  undertaking  upon 
which  I  could  only  have  been  a  clog." 

The  poem,  thus  begun  in  the  middle  of  November,  1797,  was  not  finished 
until  the  end  of  the  following  March.  It  seems  to  have  outgrown  the  pro- 
portions it  was  originally  designed  to  possess  ;  and,  instead  of  appearing  in 
the  magazine  for  which  it  was  at  first  intended,  it  formed  an  important  part 
of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  —  published  in  the  summer  of  1798.  It  proved  a 
very  great  puzzle  to  contemporary  critics,  and  the  reviews  of  it  were  un- 
sparing of  condemnation.  Wordsworth  ascribed  the  failure  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  to  the  insertion  of  the  unlucky  poem,  and  Coleridge  even  proposed 
to  withdraw  it  from  publication.  All  of  which  merely  goes  to  prove  that  a 
poet  may  be  without  honor  among  his  own  people. 

"  The  versification,"  as  Wordsworth  has  remarked,  "  is  harmonious  and 
exquisitely  varied,  exhibiting  the  utmost  powers  of  the  ballad  metre  and 
every  variety  of  which  it  is  capable."  (See  Introduction,  §§  24,  3  ;  31,  3.) 
To  appreciate  the  harmony  and  melody  of  the  verse,  we  need  only  compare  it 
with  any  of  the  old  English  ballads  of  similar,  but  less  consciously  artistic, 
form.  The  normal  stanza  has  four  verses  of  alternating  iambic  tetrameter 
a^d  iambic  trimeter.  The  trimeter  lines  are  rhymed  ;  the  tetrameter  lines 
usually  not  so,  though  the  absence  of  rhyme  in  these  lines  is  generally  com- 
pensated for  by  an  internal  rhyme  in  one  or  both.  In  some  instances  the 
normal  stanza  is  enlarged  to  a  stanza  of  five,  six,  or  even  nine  lines  —  and 
always  with  a  distinct  heightening  of  poetic  effect. 

Part  i.  1-20.  2.  one  of  three  :  see  11.  588-590.  3-8.  By  .  .  .  din. 
Observe  that  the  guest  has  at  first  no  idea  of  delaying.  Trace  and  explain  in 
detail  the  several  steps  by  which  we  see  him  pass  entirely  into  the  mariner's 


656  NOTES  TO  COLERIDGE 

power.  II.  loon,  a  good-for-nothing  fellow.  12.  Eftsoons,  at  once  ;  an 
archaic  word  tc  lend  color  to  the  poem.  Find  similar  archaic  expressions. 
15-16.  and  listens  .  .  .  will  :  see  Wordsworth's  account  of  the  poem  in 
introduction  to  these  notes. 

21-40.  Observe  the  two  parts  of  this  division.  How  does  the  back- 
ground of  the  wedding  feast  add  to  the  aesthetic  effect  ?  22-24.  drop  .  .  . 
top,  evidently  dropping  below  the  horizon,  and,  hence,  first  losing  sight  of 
the  objects  nearest  sea-level.  The  lighthouse  seems  to  be  on  the  hill.  Note 
the  order  in  which  he  sees  these  objects  on  returning,  11.  464-467.  25.  sun 
.  .  .  left.  In  what  direction  were  they  going  ?  37-40.  The.  .  .  .Mariner. 
Observe  that  every  Hne  of  this  stanza  is  a  repetition  of  a  preceding  line. 
This  tendency  to  repetition  is  often  seen  in  ballads.  On  the  refrain,  see 
Introduction,  §  23,  4;  on  the  Ballad  in  general,  §  31,  3. 

41-62.  45-50.  With  .  .  .  fled.  Show  in  detail  the  points  of  likeness 
in  this  comparison  of  the  ship  to  one  '  who  pursued  .  .  .  still  treads,'  etc. 
51-54.  And  now  .  .  .  emerald.  Where  was  the  ship  at  this  time  ?  Notice 
thl-oughout  these  stanzas  the  beauty,  simplicity,  and  strength  of  the  poet's 
descriptions.  Not  a  word  too  much  or  too  little  ;  it  is  all  a  clear-cut,  distinct 
picture.  55-62.  And  .  .  .  swound.  Describe  this  scene  and  show  its 
probable  effect  on  the  sailors.     62.  swound  :  see  note  on  1.  12. 

63-82.  63.  Albatross.  What  is  the  derivation  of  this  word  ?  67.  eat, 
the  obsolete  participle.  71.  And  .  .  .  behind.  In  what  direction  were 
they  going  now  ?  76.  vespers  nine,  i.e.  for  nine  evenings.  See  derivation 
of  '  vespers.'  Show  how  the  action  of  the  mariner  is  made  more  revolting  by 
the  greeting  accorded  to  the  albatross  (65-66)  and  its  fondness  for  the  crew 
(73-74).  Why,  then,  did  he  kill  the  bird  ?  Does  this  offence  merit  the 
punishment  which  follows  ? 

Part  n.  83-106.  83-86.  The  Sun  .  .  .  sea.  Cf.  11.  25-28.  98. 
uprist,  an  obsolete  form.  106.  A  much  travelled  correspondent  suggests  ' 
that,  although  Coleridge's  marginal  gloss  specifies  the  Pacific  Ocean,  the 
poet  had  in  mind  descriptions  of  the  Sargasso  Sea,  the  centre  of  the  great 
Atlantic  eddy,  which  more  fittingly  justifies  his  portrayal  of  the  "  silent 
sea  "  and  his  geography  of  the  return  voyage  (Parts  V,  VI). 

107-130.  A  tropical  calm.  109.  to  break.  Does  this  infinitive  express 
purpose  or  result  ?  111-112.  hot,  copper,  bloody.  Justify  the  use  of  these 
adjectives.  113.  Right  .  .  stand.  What  does  this  show  as  to  the  loca- 
tion of  this  scene?  115;  119.  Day  .  .  .  day;  Water  .  .  .  water.  Show 
the  effect  of  these  repetitions  as  picturing  the  mood  of  the  mariner.  120. 
And,  i.e.  and  yet,  in  spite  of  the  water.  123-126.  The  .  .  .  sea.  What  is 
the  mariner's  attitude  toward  nature  in  these  lines  ?  Show  in  this  and 
succeeding  stanzas  the  evidence  of  approaching  delirium.  Discuss  this 
distress  in  the  light  of  Nemesis  (CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  38).  128.  death-fires, 
mysterious  lights,  sometimes  called  corpse  candles,  supposed  to  be  seen 
over  dead  bodies,  or  to  foreshadow  the  death  of  him  who  sees  them.  What 
was  probably  the  real  cause  of  the  phenomenon  ?  129.  witch's  oils.  Why 
does  the  mariner  use  this  comparison  ?     130.  blue.     Syntax  ? 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER  657 

131-142.  132.  the  Spirit  :  see  the  marginal  gloss,  and  cj.  11.  402--405. 
133.  fathom.  Syntax?  139.  well-a-day  :  see  note  on  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  iii. 
141-142.  Instead  .  .  .  hung.  Consider  whether  this  is  to  be  taken 
literally  or  figuratively.  Observe  that  the  albatross  is  the  sign  of  the 
mariner's  sin  ;  while  his  religion  taught  that  the  cross  was  a  symbol  of 
deliverame  from  sin.  What,  then,  would  this  action  mean  to  him  ?  Note 
also  that  each  "  Part  "  of  the  poem  except  the  last  ends  with  an  allusion  to 
the  albatross,  or  the  crime,  or  the  penance.  What  is  the  purpose  of  this 
device  ? 

Part  m.  Into  what  two  divisions  may  this  part  be  separated  ?  Does 
there  seem  to  be  an  allegorical  meaning  in  this  and  succeeding  portions  of  the 
poem  ?  Study  the  poem  in  the  light  of  the  three  following  views  ;  show 
which  seems  most  probable,  or  whether  there  is  still  a  fourth  interpretation : 
(i)  that  the  poem  is  intended  to  be  taken  with  childish  or  imaginative  faith 
as  you  would  take  any  story  containing  a  supernatural  element  ;  (2)  that 
it  is  to  be  taken  as  an  allegory,  like  Pilgrim'' s  Progress  or  the  Faerie  Qiieene  ; 
(3)  that  it  is  to  be  taken  literally,  except  that  Parts  III- VI  and  some  parts 
of  ^I  and  VII  are  the  ravings  of  the  mariner  while  in  the  delirium  of  fever. 
Which  of  these  interpretations  would  make  the  poem  most  significant  and 
valuable  ? 

143-170.  143-146.  weary  :  see  note  on  11.  115-119.  152.  I  wist.  Aa 
archaic  imperfect  of  the  verb  wit.  The  expression  is  cognate  with  ywis  or 
iwis  (from  A.-S.  gewis).  See  Diet,  and  of.  Horatius  (138).  155.  water- 
sprite.  Sprite  is  the  older  form  of  spirit.  162.  With  ....  baked  :  see 
note  on  11.  37-40.  164.  Gramercy  (Fr.  grafid,  great  +  were/,  thanks),  an 
expression  of  joy  and  thankfulness,  grin.  What  gave  the  sailors  this 
appearance  ?     Cf.  with  the  next  two  lines. 

171-202.  171-176.  The  .  .  .  Sun.  Describe  this  picture.  177-184. 
And  .  .  .  gossameres.  Point  out  the  uncanny  in  the  picture,  and  show  the 
effect  on  the  mariner.  178.  Heaven's  Mother,  the  Virgin  Mary.  184. 
gossameres,  a  very  filmy  kind  of  cobweb.  Look  up  the  derivation.  188. 
a  Death.  How  account  for  the  fact  that  it  is  the  woman,  more  than  the 
Death,  that  seems  to  fill  the  mariner  with  horror  ?  190-194.  Her  .  .  .  cold. 
Describe  the  woman,  and  show  the  impression  she  produces.  193.  Life-in- 
Death.  Would  Death-in-Life  have  been  a  more  exact  or  a  more  imagina- 
tively suggestive  term  ?  197.  I've  won.  In  a  previous  throw  of  the  dice, 
Death  has  evidently  won  the  other  sailors.  In  this  throw  Life-in-Death 
wins  the  mariner.  How  does  this  correspond  with  their  subsequent  adven- 
tures ?  199-200.  The  .  .  .  dark.  So  always  in  the  tropics.  Notice  the 
fine  metaphor  in  Coleridge's  marginal  gloss  on  these  lines.  201.  whisper. 
Describe  the  effect  of  this  onomatopoeia.  On  the  qualities  of  sound  in  verse, 
see  Introduction,  §  21,  1-3.  The  poem  is  a  veritable  gamer  of  memory 
images,  poetic  figures,  and  rhetorical  devices,  and  will  well  repay  study  from 
this  point  of  view. 

203-223.     203.  looked  sideways  up.    What  does  this  suggest  ?    204- 

3U 


658  NOTES   TO  COLERIDGE 

205.  Fear  .  .  .  sip.  Explain  the  simile,  showing  the  force  of  '  sip.'  207. 
white.  Syntax  ?  209.  clomb,  archaic  for  climbed,  eastern  bar.  Explain. 
210-21 1.  The  .  .  .  tip.  Show  why  this  position  of  the  star  is  impossible. 
How  do  you  account  for  the  fact  that  the  mariner  took  note  of  all  these 
details  at  this  terrible  moment  ?  215.  cursed.  Why  ?  Was  the  curse  just  ? 
223.  Like  .  .  .  bow  :  see  note  on  11.  141-142.  Explain  fully  why  the  mari- 
ner was  fated  to  live  while  his  comrades  all  died.  An  interesting  discussion  of 
this  question  may  be  found  in  George  Macdonald's  David  Elginhrhd,  chap.  v. 

Part  iv.     Designate  the  shifts  of  scenes  that  occur  in  this  part. 

224-262.  226-227.  And  .  .  .  sand.  These  lines  were  contributed  by 
Wordsworth.  Describe  the  picture.  What  does  1.  227  modify  ?  232-235. 
Alone  .  .  .  agony  :  see  note  on  11.  11 5-1 19.  Show  that  this  loneliness  was 
spiritual  as  well  as  physical.  236-239.  The  ...  I.  Can  you  explain  this 
mood,  where  death  is  beautiful  and  life  terrible  ?  245.  or  ever,  before  ever, 
gusht.  In  what  respect  does  the  choice  of  this  word  excel  ?  246.  wicked 
whisper.  What  was  this  whisper  and  what  did  it  say  ?  Why  could  the 
mariner  not  pray  ?  Observe  that  this  is  the  climax  of  his  hardness  of  heart, 
his  rebellion  against  Providence,  his  hatred  of  God's  creatures.  253-262. 
The  cold  .  .  .  not  die.  Discuss  these  stanzas  as  the  climax  of  the  mariner's 
penance  and  suffering.  255.  The  look:  seel.  215.  262.  could  not  die  :  see 
note  on  1.  197. 

263-291.  Contrast  as  to  pictures  and  mood  these  stanzas  with  those 
preceding.  Read  Coleridge's  marginal  gloss  as  a  help  in  explaining  the 
change  which  is  coming  over  the  spirit  of  the  mariner.  263-266.  The  .  .  . 
beside.  Indicate  the  beauties  of  versification  and  imagery  in  this  stanza. 
Observe  that  the  mariner  is  at  last  awakened  to  an  interest  outside  him- 
self and  his  own  sufferings  :  cf.  Prisoner  of  Chillon  (251-258).  267-281, 
Her  beams  .  .  .  fire.  Note  the  images  of  color  in  these  stanzas,  and  show 
how  they  contribute  to  the  poetic  impression.  267.  bemocked  .  .  .  main. 
Explain.  268.  spread.  Syntax  ?  270-271.  The  .  .  .  red  :  cj.  with  11. 
129-130,  showing  the  difference  in  the  effects  produced  upon  the  mariner. 
287.  I  blessed  them  unaware.  This  may  be  taken  as  the  climax  of  the 
story.  The  mariner  no  longer  rebels  ;  his  heart  has  softened.  The  cruelty 
which  prompted,  the  disregard  of  life  which  permitted,  the  killing  of  the 
albatross,  are  replaced  by  spontaneous  love  of  the  lowly  creatures  of  the  sea. 
288-291.  The  .  .  .  sea  :  see  note  on  11.  141-142,  regarding  the  significance 
of  the  release  from  the  albatross.     Why  is  the  mariner  now  able  to  pray  ? 

Part  v.  What  time  elapses  in  this  part  ?  How  is  the  action  divided, 
and  what  shifts  of  scene  are  included  ? 

292-308.  292.  Oh  sleep  !  Consult  Introduction,  §  21,  i,  on  the 
qualities  of  the  sounds  in  this  passage.  Cf.  Coleridge's  invocation  to  sleep 
with  those  of  Shakespeare  in  Second  Part  of  Henry  IV,  III,  i  ;  Macbeth, 
II,  2  ;  and  Julius  CcBsar,  IV,  3  (last  part).  294.  Mary  Queen  :  cf.  1.  178. 
296.  slid.  Point  out  the  force  of  this  word.  297.  silly.  Some  take  this  to 
mean  blessed  or  happy  (since  now  filled  with  water):  see  derivation  of 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER  659 

'  silly ' ;  while  some  define  it  as  foolish  or  useless  (since  they  had  so  long 
been  empty).     Decide.     305.  could  not  feel.     Why  this  lightness  ? 

309-344.     309.  roaring  wind.     What  was  there  supernatural  about  the 

*  wind  '  ?  317.  wan  .  .  .  stars.  Why  '  wan  '  ?  325-326.  The  lightning 
.  .  .  wide,  now  evidently  "sheet  lightning,"  rather  than  "  chain  lightning," 
as  in  1.  314.  331.  They  .  .  .  uprose  :  see  Wordsworth's  remarks  at  the 
beginning  of  notes  to  this  poem.  Discuss  '  sere,'  1.  312  ;  '  fire-flags  sheen,' 
1.  314  ;  '  had,'  1.  333  ;  '  lifeless  tools,'  1.  339. 

345-382.  345.  I  fear  thee.  Why  ?  349.  troop  of  spirits.  Comment 
upon  the  significance  of  this  spiritual  aid.  358-372.  Sometimes  .  .  .  tune. 
These  stanzas,  especially  the  last,  may  be  considered  among  the  most  melo- 
dious in  English  poetry.  The  student  should  point  out  words  which  are 
especially  musical  and  lines  that  appear  to  be  inevitably  artistic.  It  is  to 
lines  like  these  that  Swinburne  refers  when  he  says,  "  Of  Coleridge's  best 
verses  I  venture  to  affirm  that  the  world  has  nothing  like  them,  and  can  never 
have."  358.  a-dropping.  Give  meaning  and  syntax,  366.  That  makes  ..  . 
mute.  Explain.  379.  The  spirit  slid  :  see  11.  131-134.  Is  there  any  change 
in  the  spirit's  attitude  toward  the  mariner,  and,  if  so-,  why  ?  382.  the  ship 
stood  still.  The  ship  has  now  reached  the  equator,  beyond  which  point  the 
spirit  of  the  south  has  not  the  power  to  go.  The  gloss  to  this  stanza  seems 
to  be  inconsistent  with  the  gloss  to  11.  103-106.  Does  this  inconsistency  ex- 
tend to  the  poem,  and,  if  so,  is  there  any  way  in  which  the  contradiction 
can  be  reconciled  ? 

383-409.  386.  a  short  uneasy  motion.  The  Polar  spirit,  though 
unable  to  cross  the  '  line,'  still  endeavors  to  keep  his  hold  upon  the  ship. 
The  guardian  saint  (see  1.  286  and  the  gloss  to  11.  345-349)  seeks  to  set  it 
free  ;  hence  this  '  motion.'  394.  I  have  not  to,  i.e.  am  not  able  to.  395. 
living  life.  Show  what  this  means,  and  how  the  voices  of  1.  397  are  supposed 
to  be  '  heard  '  by  the  unconscious  mariner.  399.  By  .  .  .  cross,  a  common 
ballad  oath.  404-405.  He  .  .  .  bow.  These  lines  well  express  the  sin  of 
cruelty  and  ingratitude  for  which  the  mariner  is  suffering.  406.  softer  voice. 
The  '  first  voice  '  seems  to  be  that  of  Justice,  "  Sin  must  be  punished."    The 

*  second  voice  '  is  that  of  Mercy,  "  Sin  may  be  pardoned."  With  this  idea  cf. 
Portia's  speech  in  Merchant  of  Venice,  IV,  i,  177-195. 

Part  vi.  The  forward  movement  in  this  part  may  be  considered  in  re- 
spect of  the  following :  (i)  the  ship's  progress  and  the  shifting  scenes ;  (2)  the 
change  in  the  apparent  physical  condition  of  the  mariner  ;  (3)  the  progress  in 
expiation  of  his  crime  ;  (4)  the  waning  of  the  supernatural  and  the  return  to 
the  natural.    Exemplify. 

410-429.  414.  Still  .  .  .  lord.  Explain  the  figure  and  show  its  fitness 
as  here  used.  416.  great  bright  eye.  What  gave  the  ocean  this  appear- 
ance ?  418.  If  .  .  .  go.  Supply  the  infinitive  of  which  this  line  is  the 
object.     419.  guides.     How  ?     422.  so  fast  :  see  marginal  gloss. 

430-451.  433.  The  dead  men  stood  together.  This  is  evidently  the 
last  penance  to  be  undergone  on  board  the  ship.    Show  why  it  was  imposed, 


660  NOTES  TO  COLERIDGE 

I 

and  compare  its  efifect  with  that  of  11.  255-262.  435.  fitter.  Modifies  what  ? 
442.  spell,  which  had  held  his  gaze.  444.  little  saw.  Why  ?  446-451. 
Like  .  .  .  tread.  Analyze  the  figure  in  detail.  What  in  the  mariner's 
experience  corresponds  to  '  road,'  '  turned  round/  '  fiend,'  etc.  ? 

452-483.     452.  wind.     Compare,  in  various  respects,  with  the  wind  of 

I.  309.  457.  Like  .  .  .  spring,  thus  bringing  up  images  of  home.  Cj. 
*  welcoming  '  (459).  458.  It  .  .  .  fears.  Explain.  463.  On  .  .  .  blew. 
Significance  of  this  ?  465-466.  The  .  .  .  kirk  :  see  11.  22-24  and  note. 
467.  countree  :  see  note  on  1.  12.  470-471.  O  .  .  .  alway.  What  is  implied 
by  this  prayer  ?  475.  shadow  of  the  Moon.  What  does  this  mean  ?  479. 
steady  weathercock.  Explain,  showing  force  of  the  adjective.  Name  some 
other  moonlight  scenes  of  the  poem.  482-483.  Full  .  .  .  came.  Describe. 
See  marginal  gloss. 

484-513.  489.  by  the  holy  rood,  the  Cross,  an  oath  frequent  in 
ballads  :  cf.  1.  399.     494.  They  stood  as  signals.     Observe  that  here,  as  in 

II.  335-349,  the  angelic  spirits  appear  in  order  to  aid  the  mariner.  512. 
shrieve,  an  obsolete  form  of  shrive,  to  absolve  from  guilt  or  sin  ;  here,  from 
the  blood-guiltiness  of  the  albatross's  death.     See  note  on  11.  141-142. 

Part  vii.     Designate  the  successive  topics  in  this  part. 

514-555.  517.  marineres  :  see  note  on.l.  12.  525.  those  lights  :  cf. 
11.  494-495.  526.  That,  subject  of  'made.'  530.  sere  :  cf.  1.  312.  533- 
534.  Brown  .  .  .  along.  Describe  the  picture.  537.  That  .  .  .  young. 
What  does  the  clause  modify  ?  549.  The  ship  went  down  like  lead.  Thus 
the  poet  suddenly  transports  us  "  from  the  land  of  mystery  to  that  of  human 
reality,"  from  the  supernatural  to  the  natural  world.  The  mariner  has  been 
undergoing  punishment  for  guilt  ;  has  been  passing  through  a  fearful  experi- 
ence for  his  spiritual  salvation.  The  ship  has  been  the  stage  on  which  these 
scenes  have  been  enacted,  and  when  it  has  served  its  purpose  it  disappears 
from  human  sight.  This  disappearance  not  only  hides  the  mystery  of  the 
dead,  but  breaks  the  only  material  link  that  binds  the  mariner  to  his  dreadful 
past. 

556-581.  558-559.  save  .  .  .  sound.  Explain.  560-565.  the  Pilot 
.  .  .  crazy  go.  The  terrifying  appearance  of  the  mariner  is  here  in  evidence. 
Why  is  the  Hermit  less  affected  than  the  rest  ?  "  No  man  liveth  to  himself 
alone  "  —  this  seems  to  be  the  poet's  thought.  The  mariner  has  done 
penance,  but  the  consequences  of  his  sin  have  altered  his  relation  to  his 
fellow-men.     565.  now.     When  ?     581.  And  .  .  .  free.     Explain. 

582-625.  586.  like  night.  Comment  upon  the  simile.  588-590.  That 
.  .  .  teach  :  cf.  11.  2  and  18,  and  show  on  what  basis  the  mariner  selects  his 
hearers.  What  does  this  suggest  as  to  the  Wedding-Guest?  591.  "What 
loud  uproar.  What  is  the  aesthetic  value  of  this  reference  to  the  wedding  ? 
595-596.  And  hark  .  .  .  prayer.  What  is  the  significance  of  these  lines  ? 
Cf.  11.  601-617.  598.  Alone  .  .  .  sea  :  cf.  11.  232-235  and  note.  603.  To 
walk.  Syntax  ?  612-617.  He  .  .  .  all,  the  moral  of  the  poem.  Coleridge 
once  said  he  feared  he  had  obtruded  it  too  openly  on  the  reader.     Do  you 


II 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES  66l 

agree  ?  6i8-;62S.  The  Mariner  .  .  .  morn.  Describe  the  mood  with 
which  the  poem  ends.  620-621.  Wedding-Guest  turned.  Why  ?  622. 
forlorn,  an  archaic  passive  participle,  meaning  bereft.  624.  sadder.  What 
does  the  word  mean  here  ?    What  lesson  has  the  Wedding-Guest  learned  ? 

KUBLA    KHAN 

This  poem  was  written,  probably,  in  1798.  The  poet  had  fallen  asleep 
just  as  he  was  reading  the  following  sentence  in  Purchas  his  Pilgrimage  (a 
book  of  travel  published  1613) :  "  In  Xamdu  did  Cublai  Can  build  a  stately 
Palace,  encompassing  sixteen  miles  of  plain  ground  with  a  wall,  wherein  are 
fertile  meadows,  pleasant  springs,  delightful  streams,  and  all  sorts  of  beasts 
of  chase  and  game,  and  in  the  midst  thereof  a  sumptuous  house  of  pleasure." 
The  sentence  was  elaborated  in  a  marvellous  dream  during  which  Coleridge 
without  the  slightest  effort  composed  some  two  or  three  hundred  lines. 
On  awaking  he  began  to  write  down  the  poem,  but  unfortunately  was 
interrupted  and  was  unable  later  to  remember  the  rest  of  the  lines.  Thus 
was  written  the  fragment,  Kiihla  Klian,  —  a  striking  example  of  the'imagi- 
native  and  emotional  elaboration  of  a  theme,  and  one  of  the  most  romantic 
and  strangely  beautiful  of  poems.  Kubla  Khan  was  a  great  Mogul  con- 
queror of  the  thirteenth  century  ;  his  empire  was  the  most  extensive  ever 
set  up  in  Asia,  reaching  from  the  Pacific  to  the  Black  Sea  and  almost  to  the 
Mediterranean. 

SOUTHEY 

THE   BATTLE   OF   BLENHEIM 

At  Blenheim  (pronounced  in  English  '  blen'im  '),  a  village  in  western 
Bavaria,  on  the  Danube,  the  English,  Germans,  Dutch,  and  Danes  (52,000), 
under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene  of  Savoy,  defeated  the 
French  and  Bavarians  (55,000-60,000),  under  Tallard.  The  loss  of  the 
English  and  their  allies  was  11,000-12,000  ;  of  the  French  and  Bavarians, 
40,000  (?).  This,  in  1704,  was  one  of  the  battles  of  the  war  of  the  Spanish 
Succession. 

LAMB 

THE  OLD   FAMILIAR   FACES 

This  poem  was  written  in  January,  1798,  after  Mary  Lamb  in  a  fit  of 
insanity  had  killed  her  mother  and  while  Mary  was  in  the  asylum  (cf.  1.  20, 
"  And  some  are  taken  from  me  ").  In  its  first  form  there  was  an  opening 
stanza  referring  to  the  death  of  his  mother.  The  '  friend  '  of  the  fourth 
stanza,  with  whom  Lamb  had  quarrelled,  was  probably  Charles  Lloyd,  a 
meditative  young  man,  formerly  a  disciple  of  Coleridge.  The  quarrel  was 
of  brief  duration.    The  '  Friend  '  of  the  sixth  stanza  was  Coleridge. 


662  NOTES   TO  BYRON 


BYRON 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON 


The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  was  written  in  Switzerland,  June,  1816,  shortly 
after  Byron  had  left  England  for  the  last  time.  The  poet,  who,  with  Shelley, 
was  sailing  on  Lake  Geneva,  had  been  deeply  impressed  with  the  castle  of 
Chillon,  its  romantic  history,  its  picturesque  situation  on  the  northern  shore 
of  the  beautiful  lake,  its  massive  walls  and  gloomy  dungeons.  He  had  also 
heard,  in  a  general  way,  of  Bonnivard,  a  political  prisoner,  who  had  occupied 
a  cell  in  the  castle  nearly  three  hundred  years  before.  He  wrote  the  poem 
during  a  two  days'  detention  by  storms,  at  a  village  on  the  shore  of  the  lake. 
In  a  prefatory  note,  Byron  says, "  When  this  poem  was  composed,  I  was 
not  sufficiently  aware  of  the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should  have  en- 
deavored to  dignify  the  subject  by  an  attempt  to  celebrate  his  courage  and 
his  virtues."  On  the  whole,  we  may  be  glad  that  he  did  not  know  more  fully 
the  story  of  the  actual  prisoner  of  Chillon,  since  in  simplicity,  vigor  of  treat- 
ment, impressiveness,  and  hold  upon  the  sympathy  of  the  reader,  the  poem, 
just  as  it  is,  leaves  little  to  be  desired. 

I.  Indicate  the  topic  of  this  and  of  each  succeeding  division  in  its  turn. 
2-3.  Nor  .  .  .  night.  Observe  the  dimeter  lines.  Describe  the  versifica- 
tion of  the  poem.  What  other  poems  of  this  book  have  similar  rhyme  and 
metre  ?  (See  Introduction.)  6.  vile  repose.  Meaning  ?  .  7.  spoil.  In 
what  sense  ?  10.  banned,  shut  off  or  denied.  Discriminate  between 
*  banned  '  and  '  barred.'  14.  For,  on  account  of.  tenets.  See  Did.  17. 
were  .  .  .  are.     Note  the  contrast.     26.  this  wreck.     Meaning  ? 

II.  Indicate  topic  as  before.  27.  Gothic  mould,  Gothic  form  of  archi- 
tecture. What  are  some  of  its  characteristics  as  compared  with  Doric, 
Ionic,  Corinthian,  Roman,  Byzantine  ?  29.  massy,  massive.  35.  marsh's 
meteor  lamp,  the  will  o'  the  wisp.  See  note  on  UAlleg.  (104).  41. 
this  new  day.  When  will  he  be  '  done  '  with  it  ?  42.  painful.  WTiy  ? 
47.  lay  living.  The  poem  is  notable  for  its  alliterations.  Point  them  out 
as  they  occur,  showing  effect  of  each,  i.e.  fitness,  beauty,  or  the  opposite. 
What  instances  so  far  ? 

ni.  Topic  ?  48.  column  stone.  What  is  meant  ?  49.  each  alone. 
Meaning?  52.  But,  except.  57.  pure  elements  of  earth,  such  as- light, 
sunshine,  wholesome  air,  etc.  63.  dreary.  Show  how  the  sound  of  this 
word  suggests  its  meaning — a  kind  of  onomatopoeia. 

IV.  71.  ought.  What  tense  ?  72.  in  his  degree.  Meaning  ?  78. 
such  bird  in  such  a  nest.  Kind  and  fitness  of  the  figure  ?  80-81.  When 
.  ,  .  free.  Meaning  ?  82.  polar  day.  What  is  the  point  of  this  com- 
parison ?  Near  the  poles  the  day  lasts  the  whole  season.  84.  sleepless 
summer  .  .  .  long  light.  Note  the  double  alliteration  in  the  same  line. 
Cf.  1.  10.  85.  offspring.  Explain  the  figure.  86-91.  And  thus 
below.    What  are  the  characteristics  of  this  yoimger  brother  ? 


1 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  663 

V.  Characterize  the  second  brother.  95.  had  stood,  would  have  stood. 
loi.  forced  it  on,  made  my  spirit  keep  up.  102.  Those  relics,  the  two 
brothers  were  all  that  were  left,  hence  *  relics.'  105.  gulf,  an  abyss  in  which 
he  was  overwhelmed. 

VI.  Remember  to  indicate  the  topic  of  each  division  of  the  poem.  107. 
Lake  Leman,  from  the  Latin,  Laciis  Lemannus,  as  used  in  Caesar's  Commen- 
taries, I,  8.  108.  A  thousand  feet.  Below  the  castle  the  lake  has  been 
fathomed  and  proved  to  be  nearly  one  thousand  feet  deep.  112.  enthralls, 
to  enslave  or  hold  captive  ;  thus  the  wave  (or  lake)  surrounds  the  battle- 
ments of  the  C9,stle  and  holds  it  captive.  114.  living  grave.  Explain. 
122.  rock,  rocked.  These  words  are  of  entirely  different  derivation.  Look 
them  up. 

VII.  126.  nearer.  In  what  sense  ?  135.  years.  Syntax  ?  136.  pent, 
penned  or  confined.  150-151.  And  .  .  .  cave.  Why  especially  pitiful  ? 
154.  foolish  thought.  Why  foolish  ?  160.  earth.  Syntax  ?  163.  mur- 
der's fitting  monument.     How  is  the  chain  a  fitting  monument  ? 

VIII.  167.  race.  Meaning  ?  173.  natural  or  inspired.  What  distinc- 
tion between  these  two  words  ?  175.  was  withered.  Explain  why  passive 
voice.  184.  horrors  .  .  .  woe.  Discriminate  between  these  words.  189. 
those.  Why  plural,  when  there  was  but  one  ?  193.  departing  rainbow's 
ray.  Show  the  fitness  of  the  figure.  198.  better  days.  When?  205-211. 
I  .  .  .  him.  Compare  the  emotions  of  the  prisoner  with  those  which  he  felt 
when  the  other  brother  died.  212-213.  Why  is  'I'  italicized?  214. 
dungeon-dew.  Meaning  ?  226.  ne'er  be  so.  What  is  meant  ?  229. 
faith.  This  evidently  means  religion,  which  forbade  suicide  (a  selfish  death). 
But  why  is  it  called  an  '  earthly  '  hope  ? 

IX.  Describe  in  detail  the  mental  condition  of  the  prisoner  as  shown 
here.  This  is  often  called  the  best  division  of  the  poem.  Why  ?  233- 
236.  First  .  .  .  stone.  Discuss.  237.  wist,  knew.  243.  vacancy  absorbing 
space.  WTiat  does  the  poet  seem  to  mean  ?  245-246.  no  stars  .  .  .  crime. 
What  does  each  pair  of  words  add  in  describing  his  condition  ?  Try  to  get 
a  definite  idea  of  these  lines  and,  indeed,  of  each  line  of  the  division,  as  they 
all  demand  close  thought. 

X.  Show  what  the  bird  did  toward  bringing  the  prisoner  back  to  light 
and  life.  257-258.  And  they  .  .  .  misery,  i.e.<  he  forgot,  for  the  moment, 
his  sad  condition.  262.  Close  slowly  round  me.  What  does  this  mean  ? 
269.  a  thousand  things.  Discuss.  274.  not  half  so  desolate,  else  it  could 
not  have  sung  so  sweetly.  277.  dungeon's  brink,  the  verge,  or  window  ledge 
of  the  dungeon.  283.  in  winged  guise,  in  the  form  of  a  bird.  293-299. 
Lone  .  .  .  gay.  What  do  you  call  these  figures  ?  Show  their  force  and  fit- 
ness, and  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  details  of  the  second  one.  297.  a  frown. 
Explain  the  figure. 

XI.  Xn.  Topic  of  each,  as  always  ?  303.  inured.  Explain.  308. 
athwart.  Meaning  ?  315.  profaned,  i.e.  by  stepping  on  their  graves. 
319-  therefrom,  from  or  by  aid  of  the  footing.  323.  wider  prison.  Ex- 
plain and  note  the  pathos  of  the  idea. 


664  NOTES  TO  BYRON 

XIII.  334.  thousand  years,  a  large  definite  number  for  an  indefinite  — 
a  species  of  synecdoche.  Cf.  1.  269,  and  see  Introduction,  §  8,  on  poetic 
figures.  339.  town,  a  Swiss  vUlage  across  the  lake.  341.  a  little  isle. 
Byron  has  elsewhere  spoken  of  this  island,  with  its  '  three  tall  trees  '  —  the 
only  island  he  saw  in  his  voyage  around  the  lake.  In  what  sense  did  it 
'  smile  '  at  the  prisoner  ?  356.  new  tears  came  in  my  eye.  Describe  this 
mood.     364.  oppressed,  by  what  ? 

XIV.  Give  topic.  369.  mote,  the  speck  (of  misery)  in  his  eye  that  pre- 
vented his  looking  at  things  around  him.  370.  At  last  .  .  .  free.  Explain 
his  lack  of  interest.  374.  love  despair.  Describe  such  a  condition  of 
mind.  382,  sullen  trade.  Explain.  384.  feel  less  than  they.  Meaning  ? 
389.  friends.  Why  ?  Syntax  of  the  word  ?  390.  communion,  association. 
391.  even  I.     Why  does  he  use  the  word  '  even  '  ? 

STANZAS    FROM   CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE 

These  stanzas  are  inserted  merely  to  serve  as  an  illustration,  and  to  give  a 
slight  taste,  of  the  poet's  greatest  production.  Accordingly  we  shall  leave  to 
the  student  the  task,  or  privilege,  of  working  out  for  himself  the  meaning  of 
most  of  the  lines.  Attention  may  well  be  called,  however,  to  the  fine  artistic 
sense  which  prompted  Byron  to  make  use  of  the  Spenserian  stanza  for  his 
poem.  Perhaps  nowhere  can  the  stanza  be  found  written  with  greater 
strength  and  dignity.      See  Introduction,  §§  19;  24,  5. 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  a  poem  of  four  cantos,  published  at  intervals 
from  1812  to  1818,  is  an  account  of  Byron's  travels,  impressions,  and  senti- 
ments, with  many  idealized  descriptions  of  impressive  scenes.  In  his  Pref- 
ace to  the  first  and  second  cantos  Byron  wrote  :  "  A  fictitious  character  is 
introduced  for  the  sake  of  giving  some  connection  to  the  piece,  which,  how- 
ever, makes  no  pretensions  to  regularity.  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by 
friends,  on  whose  opinions  I  set  a  high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character, 
"  Childe  Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real 
personage  :  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all,  to  disclaim.  Harold  is  a  child  of 
imagination  for  the  purpose  I  have  stated."  'Childe'  has  its  middle 
English  meaning,  —  a  noble  youth,  a  squire. 

Canto  hi,  xxi-xxviii  :  Waterloo.  When  in  1816  Byron  exiled  him- 
self from  England  (see  introduction  to  his  poems,  above),  he  endeavored  to 
find  diversion  from  the  thoughts  and  memories  that  tortured  him  by  taking 
up  again  the  thread  of  Childe  Harold's  travels  and  experiences.  From 
Brussels  he  visited  the  field  of  Waterloo  where  a  few  months  before  (June  18, 
181 5)  the  battle  that  marked  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  had  been  fought. 
The  preliminary  engagement  of  Quatre  Bras  occurred  two  days  before  the 
decisive  battle,  and  it  is  the  eve  of  Quatre  Bras  —  the  ball  at  Brussels,  the 
midnight  alarm,  and  the  rush  to  arms  —  that  Byron  describes  in  the  eight 
stanzas  reproduced  in  the  text.  Sir  Walter  Scott  thought  them  almost 
unequalled  for  feeling  and  vigor.  This  third  canto  was  completed  in  Swit- 
zerland in  1816.  —  8-9.    Note  the  dramatic  contrast  between  '  marriage 


CHI  IDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE  665 

bell '  and  '  rising  {i.e.  commencing,  growing)  knell.'  12-15,  famous  lines. 
16.  Discuss  the  force  of  this  line.  20.  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain.  The 
Duke  of  Brunswick  was  killed  at  Quatre  Bras.  25.  his  father,  —  who  was 
mortally  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Jena,  1806.  35.  mutual  eyes.  Is  this 
a  forced  use  of  '  mutual '  ?  See  Diet.  42.  alarming,  calling  to  arms.  46- 
50.  The  war  pibroch  (music  of  the  bagpipe)  of  Lochiel,  Chief  of  the  High- 
land Camerons,  which  has  been  heard  in  Albyn's  (Scotland's)  hills  and  in 
the  past  by  Saxon  (English)  foes,  now  resounds  at  midnight,  shrill  and 
savage,  in  the  Belgian  field.  51.  fill,  intransitive,  "  are  filled."  53, 
memory.  Subject  of '  instils.'  54.  Evan's,  Donald's.  Sir  Evan  Cameron, 
of  Lochiel  (d.  17 19),  the  most  celebrated  leader  of  the  Camerons  ;  his 
grandson,  Donald  Cameron  (d.  1748),  called  the  'gentle  Lochiel.'  55. 
Ardennes.  The  forest  region  on  the  frontier  of  France  and  Belgium,  dis- 
tinguished in  the  annals  of  many  wars,  —  not  least  in  the  World  War.  60. 
Which  now  beneath  them.  Supply  '  grows  '  from  '  shall  grow  '  in  the  next 
line  :  a  good  example  of  the  condensed  style  peculiar  to  this  poem.  69. 
thunder-clouds,  —  of  war.  —  It  should  be  added  that  previous  to  the  ball 
Wellington  had  received  word  of  French  operations,  that  he  was  not  sur- 
prised at  the  ball,  and  that  he  had  directed  his  general  officers  to  appear 
there  so  that  the  people  of  Brussels  might  have  no  suspicion  of  what  was 
imminent.  The  officers  had  their  orders  to  leave  as  quietly  as  possible  at 
ten  o'clock  and  join  their  commands. 

Canto  iv,  cxxxex-cxlv  :  The  Coliseum.    Although  of  Childe  Harold 
the  third  Canto  is  probably  the  best  on  the  whole,  it  contains  no  single 
groups  of  stanzas  which  rank  as  high  as  this  and  the  following  extract  from 
Canto   IV.     They   were   written,   presumably  at  Venice,   in    181 7.    The 
desolation  of  ruined  Rome  and  the  lessons  that  it  taught  appear  to  have 
powerfully  impressed  Byron  ;  so  much  so,  that  perhaps  nowhere  in  his  poems 
is  he  more  sincerely  and  nobly  eloquent  than  here.     i.  nations.     The  vast, 
!  cosmopolitan  audience.    The  Coliseum  is  supposed  to  have  seated  40,000- 
;  50,000  persons  and  to  have  furnished  standing  room  for  many  thousands 
more.     This  great  edifice,  the  largest  theatre  in  the  world,  was  begun  a.d. 
f  72  by  the  emperor  Vespasian  and  completed  by  his  son,  the  emperor  Titus 
!  (Titus  Flavins  Vespasianus),  a.d.  80.     Originally  called  the  Flavian  Amphi- 
\  theatre,  it  has  been  known,  since  about  the  beginning  of  the  eighth  century, 
1  as  the  Coliseum  (or  Colosseum),  in  reference  to  its  size  or  to  Nero's  colossal 
\  statue  which  once  stood  near  by.     It  was  inaugurated  by  shows  lasting 
I  one  hundred  days,  in  which  five  thousand  animals  were  killed.     5.  genial. 
[  Define  irony  !     8.  listed,  enclosed  for  a  contest.     10-27.     The  reference  is 
!|  to  the  statue  of  the  Dying  Gladiator,  so-called,  in  the  Capitoline  Museum 
i  at  Rome,  but  Byron  describes  much  more  than  what  he  saw  in  the  repre- 
sentation by  the  sculptor  —  the  contemporary  scene,  the  thoughts  of  the 
dying  Dacian,  the  present  ruin  of  the  stupendous  pile,  the  vanity  of  imperial 
glory  and  of  human  prophecy.     What  the  sculptor  intended  does  not  afifect 
I  our  estimate  of  Byron's  poem  ;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  statue  itself 


666  NOTES  TO  BYRON 

probably  exhibits  not  a  gladiator  who  might  have  fought  in  the  arena  of  the 
Coliseum,  but  a  dying  warrior  —  a  Gaul  recognized  by  his  twisted  collar 
and  bristly  hair  and  beard  —  who  has  been  wounded  in  the  breast  and  who 
is  seated  upon  his  shield,  on  which  lies  his  curved  battle-horn.  lo.  Byron 
is  sometimes  careless  about  his  metres,  but  not  so  often  as  those  who  scan 
by  counting  syllables  imagine.  To  the  finger-test  this  line  may  prove 
irregular.  But  if  the  verse  is  read  naturally  the  rhythm  leaps  to  the  ear  : 
it  is  both  unaffected  and  artistic  —  "I  see  bef6re  me  thg  Gladiator  If e. 
In  the  third  foot  an  anapaest  is  substituted  for  an  iamb  ;  that  is  not  only 
allowable  but  singularly  suited  to  the  expression  of  exalted  contemplation. 
Similar  artistic  effect  is  achieved  in  1.  15  by  the  elocutionary  pause  [a] 
before  "  Fr6m  "  and  the  succeeding  anapaest,  "  thg  rSd  gdsh,"  which  com- 
pensates for  the  missing  light  syllable  of  the  first  foot.  In  somewhat  the 
same  way  the  metrical  effect  of  1.  16  is  heightened  :  "  Like  thS  first  6f  2. 
th(indSr-sh6w6r  :  S,nd  n6w."  See  Introduction,  §  20,  for  a  discussion  of  how 
metres  may  be  skilfully  varied.  What  other  examples  of  apparent  irregu- 
larity can  you  find  in  the  text  ?  Can  you  justify  some  or  all  such  cases  by 
artistic  design  and  pleasing  effect?  Find  illustrative  lines.  11-12.  his 
manly  brow,  etc.  A  famous  line,  often  quoted.  Note  the  masterly  con- 
densation of  a  philosophy  of  life,  —  and  see  Introduction,  §  34.  23. 
Another  famous  line.  24.  Dacian.  Dacia,  now  Roumania.  26.  rushed 
with  his  blood.  A  forceful  figure  :  These  images  of  his  home  crowd  through 
his  mind  while  his  blood  courses  through  the  wound,  images  and  blood 
rushing  to  death.  27.  Referring  to  the  inroads  of  the  Goths  and  conceiving 
the  sack  of  Rome  by  Alaric  in  410  as  retaliative.  29.  buzzing  nations. 
Cf.  1.  I  ;  Byron  is  not  above  repeating  a  favorite  phrase,  ways,  aisles  and 
passages.  34.  sounds  much.  My  one  voice  seems  a  loud  sound  ;  note 
the  similar  dramatic  contrast  in  1.  36.  38.  For  a  long  time  the  ruins  were 
used  as  a  quarry.  40-45.  Viewed  from  a  distance  the  building  seems 
almost  complete  and  the  visitor  wonders  whence  the  quarried  stone  was 
taken  ;  but  closer  examination  reveals  the  ruin.  About  two-thirds  of  this 
gigantic  structure  have  disappeared,  but  the  ruins  are  still  stupendous. 
42.  developed,  revealed,  disclosed,  —  in  the  radical  sense  ;  cf.  '  envelop  ' 
and  see  Diet.  45.  Supply  *  that '  after  *  all.'  46-54.  The  Cohseum  is 
most  impressive  by  moonlight  ;  then  the  destruction  is  scarcely  visible. 
48.  loops,  loopholes.  The  stars  are  seen  through  the  ruinous  gaps  made 
by  *  time.'  51.  Julius  Caesar  is  said  to  have  found  a  peculiar  satisfaction 
in  wearing  the  crown  of  laurel,  —  it  hid  his  baldness  !  The  shrubs  which 
grew  on  the  ruins  are  compared  to  his  laurel  crown.  A  far-fetched  simile  ! 
What  of  its  propriety  ?  53.  raise.  Imperative.  Then,  by  the  magic 
circle  of  the  ruins,  raise  the  dead  !  55-60.  This  saying  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
pilgrims  is  traceable  to  a  fragment  attributed  to  the  Northumberland  monk 
and  historian,  Bede  (d.  735),  whom  we  have  mentioned  above,  at  the  close 
of  chap.  i.     63.  Expressive  of  Byron's  embittered  spirit  ? 

Canto  iv,  CLxxvin-CLXxxiv  :  The  Ocean.    The  following  lines  from 


TO  A   SKYLARK  667 

the  close  of  Childe  Harold  are  among  the  most  sublime  Byron  ever  wrote. 
The  first  stanza,  which  reminds  one  of  Wordsworth's  nature-worship,  is 
particularly  well  known.  27.  lay.  Ungrammatical,  for  '  lie,'  to  rhyme 
with  '  bay  '  ;  a  reckless  solecism,  which,  mars  for  us  one  of  Byron's  best 
lines.  But  Sir  Francis  Bacon  was  capable  of  using  '  lay '  intransitively,  and 
other  writers  before  Byron  and  after  have  unblushingly  sinned  in  a  usage 
which  will  not  pass  muster  nowadays.  31.  oak  leviathans,  warships  ;  cf. 
note  on  Paradise  Lost  (201).  35.  yeast  of  waves.  The  foam  of  the  waves 
likened  to  the  foam  of  fermenting  yeast.  36.  Armada.  The  Invincible, 
or  the  Spanish,  Armada,  a  great  fleet  of  129  or  more  ships  sent  by  Philip  II 
of  Spain  against  England  in  1588.  It  was  defeated  by  the  English  fleet  of 
about  80  vessels,  in  the  English  Channel  and  Strait  of  Dover,  in  August  of 
that  year,  spoils  of  Trafalgar,  the  wreckage  of  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  — 
the  greatest  British  naval  victory  of  the  Napoleonic  wars.  The  battle  was 
fought  off  Cape  Trafalgar,  on  the  southern  coast  of  Spain,  Oct.  21,  1805. 
Nelson,  the  heroic  English  commander,  was  killed,  dying  on  board  the 
Victory.  At  the  beginning  of  the  battle  he  hoisted  the  world-famous  signal  : 
"  England  expects  that  every  man  will  do  his  duty."     39.  washed,  brought. 

KNOW  YE   THE   LAND 

These  are  the  opening  lines  of  The  Bride  of  Ahydos,  a  Turkish  story, 
published  in  18 13.  The  description  of  the  spirit  of  the  East  is  romantic 
and  rather  rhetorical,  —  a  good  example  of  Byron's  genius  in  its  more 
imaginative  moments,  i.  cypress.  Symbolic  of  death,  myrtle.  Sacred 
to  Venus.  The  same  antithesis  is  developed  in  the  three  following  lines. 
3.  turtle  :  turtle-dove.     8.  Gul,  Persian  for  '  rose.' 

SHE   WALKS    IN   BEAUTY 

One  of  the  songs  written  for  Hebrew  Melodies;   published  1815. 
SHELLEY 

TO   A  SKYLARK 

This  poem  was  composed  near  Leghorn,  in  Italy,  in  1820.  It  is  perhaps 
the  most  beautiful  of  Shelley's  lyrics,  and  most  typical  of  the  qualities  which 
especially  distinguish  him.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  the  spirit  which 
animates  the  song  of  a  bird  translated  more  exquisitely  into  words.  Con- 
cerning this  lyric  IMrs.  Shelley  has  written  :  "  It  was  on  a  beautiful  summer 
evening,  while  wandering  near  the  lanes  whose  myrtle  hedges  were  the 
bowers  of  the  fireflies,  that  we  heard  the  carolling  of  the  skylark  which  in- 
spired one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems." 

1-30.  The  clear  music  of  the  lark  as  heard  by  the  poet.  i.  spirit. 
In  addressing  the  bird  he  appeals  to  the  spirit  of  music  which  it  embodies. 
6-10.  Higher  .  .  .  singest.    This  stanza  well  illustrates  the  effect  of  the 


668  NOTES  TO  SHELLEY 

peculiar  metre.  The  first  four  lines  are  quick  trochaic  trimeters,  suggestive 
of  the  swift  upward  darting  of  the  bird.  The  fifth  hne  is  iambic  hexameter, 
slow  and  apparently  correspondent  to  the  long  and  graceful  sweep  of  soaring 
movement.  What  is  the  rhyme  system  of  the  poem  ?  8.  Like  a  cloud  of 
fire.  Discuss  the  figure.  16-20.  The  pale  .  .  .  delight.  Explain  the 
comparison  of  *  lark  '  to  '  star.'  22.  silver  sphere.  Explain.  26-30.  All 
.  .  .  overflowed.  Note  the  comparison  between  the  moonbeams  and  the 
song  of  the  lark.  In  this  poem,  as  in  most  of  Shelley,  every  figure  will 
repay  careful  study. 

31-60.  A  description  of  the  bird  by  a  series  of  similitudes.  36-40. 
Like  .  .  .  not.  Consider  how  the  lark,  like  the  poet,  creates  the  taste 
which  is  to  enjoy  its  song.  55.  heavy-winged  thieves.  The  wings  of  the 
wind  are  heavy  from  the  drowsy  perfume  of  the  rose. 

61-75.  Sources  and  nature  of  the  song.  61.  sprite,  an  early  form  of 
the  word  spirit.  66.  hymeneal,  from  Hymen,  god  of  marriage.  See  CI.  D. 
or  CI.  M.,  p.  36. 

76-105.  Details  of  the  lark's  superiority  to  the  poet.  81-95.  Waking 
.  .  .  near.  Show  the  connection  and  trace  the  thought  of  these  three 
stanzas.  90.  Our  .  .  .  thought.  A  fine  example  of  the  balanced  line,  in- 
evitable in  thought  and  expression,  a  touchstone.  Introduction,  §  34. 
96-99.  Better  .  .  .  found.  Shelley  himself  excelled  in  these  two  partic- 
ulars, —  the  understanding  of  metrical  effects,  and  the  knowledge  and 
appreciation  of  poetry  ('  treasures  in  books  '). 

THE  CLOUD 

This  lyric  also  appeared  in  1820,  though  it  must  have  been  composed  two 
or  three  years  before,  if,  as  Mrs.  Shelley  suggests,  it  was  written  in  England. 
In  speaking  of  the  ode  To  a  Skylark  and  The  Cloud,  she  says  that  in  the 
opinion  of  many  critics  they  "  bear  a  purer  poetical  stamp  than  any  of  his  pro- 
ductions. They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted,  —  listening  to  the 
carolling  of  the  bird,  aloft  in  the  azure  sky  of  Italy,  or  marking  the  cloud  as  it 
sped  across  the  heavens,  while  he  floated  in  his  boat  on  the  Thames."  The 
cloud  itself  is  supposed  to  sing. 

The  metre  and  rhyme  of  this  poem  are  characterized  by  a  lightness  and 
airiness  of  effect  especially  well  suited  to  the  subject.  The  even-numbered 
lines  are  nearly  all  trimeter,  and  are  rh3Tned  in  pairs.  The  odd-numbered 
lines  are  tetrameter,  and  have  only  internal  rh3rme.  Though  the  number  of 
lines  in  the  stanza  differs,  the  stanza  is  always  regularly  formed  according 
to  the  principle  shown  above.  The  lightness  of  movement  in  the  verse  is 
due  to  the  short  lines,  to  the  internal  rhyme,  to  the  large  number  of  anapaestic 
substitutions,  and  to  the  artistic  sequences  of  vowel  and  consonant  sounds. 
(See  Introduction,  §§  20,  i ;  21 ;  23,  2.) 

1-12.  7.  mother's  breast.  Who  is  this  mother  that  dances  about  the 
sun  ?    Notice  each  figure  of  speech  in  the  stanza.  j 


ADONAIS  669 

13-30,  Discuss  the  figures.  i8.  Lightning.  How  is  Lightning  the  pilot 
of  the  cloud  ?  28.  Spirit  .  .  .  remains,  object  of  '  dream.'  30.  Whilst 
.  .  .  rains.     Explain  this  line. 

31-44.  Discuss  figures.  31.  sanguine,  blood-red,  the  radical  meaning 
of  the  word.  Derivation  ?  33.  sailing  rack,  thin,  broken  clouds,  sailing  or 
floating  through  the  air.  35-38.  As  .  .  .  wings.  Show  the  points  of  like- 
ness in  this  comparison.     41.  crimson  pall.     Describe  the  picture. 

45-58.  53.  whirl  and  flee.  What  gives  the  stars  this  appearance  ?  55. 
wind-built.  Explain  the  adjective.  56-58.  Till  .  .  .  these.  Describe  how 
the  waters  become  like  strips  of  the  sky. 

59-72.  59-60.  I  bind  .  .  .  pearl.  Explain  *  burning  zone  '  and  *  girdle 
of  pearl.'  61-62.  The  .  .  .  unfixrl.  Discuss  these  lines.  66.  be,  here  an 
indicative.  69.  powers  .  .  .  chair.  Meaning  ?  71.  The  .  .  .  wove. 
Comment  upon  the  process. 

73-84.  Discuss  the  figures.  73  ;  74.  daughter  ;  nursling.  How  so  ? 
81.  cenotaph.  Look  up  meaning  and  apply  it  to  this  picture.  82.  caverns 
of  rain.    What  is  meant  ? 

TO  NIGHT 

This  lyric  was  written  in  182 1.  Shelley  here  gives  extraordinary  evidence 
of  his  wizardry  in  the  technique  of  verse.  The  metrical  effects,  the  combina- 
tions of  vowel  sounds,  the  swing  of  the  verse,  and  its  peculiar  cadences — all 
contribute  to  make  the  stanzas  well-nigh  perfect. 

1-7.  Swiftly  .  .  .  flight.  What  is  the  metrical  and  stanzaic  system  of 
the  poem?  i.  western  wave.  In  what  direction  is  Night  represented  as 
moving,  and  why  ?  13.  opiate  wand,  thus  producing  sleep.  20.  unloved 
guest.  Why  ?  unloved  by  whom  ?  22.  brother  Death.  Li  what  sense 
is  Death  the  brother  of  Night?  24.  filmy-eyed.  Consider  the  epithet. 
Discuss  the  use  of  personification  in  the  poem. 

STANZAS   FROM  ADONAIS 

Adonais,  an  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  John  Keats,  was  printed  at  Pisa,  Italy, 
in  1821.  Keats  died  at  Rome,  February  23  of  that  year  ;  the  elegy  was 
written  between  the  end  of  May  and  June  16.  Mrs.  Shelley  pointed  out, 
after  the  author's  own  death,  that  the  poem  "  seems  now  more  applicable  to 
Shelley  himself  than  to  the  young  and  gifted  poet  whom  he  mourned." 
Though  it  was  not  received  with  any  immediate  enthusiasm,  the  world  now 
knows  that  it  is  one  of  the  seven  or  eight  greatest  elegies  ever  written. 
Shelley  believed  it  to  be  the  least  imperfect  of  his  compositions.  Our 
selection  —  from  the  second  half  of  the  poem,  beginning  with  the  thirty- 
ninth  stanza  —  affirms  that  high  comfort  which  at  last  comes  to  the  bereaved 
heart  as,  brooding  upon  the  mystery  of  life  and  death,  it  divines  the  sustain- 
ing reality,  the  eternal  Purpose  in  which  the  soul  of  man  is  an  essential  and 
abiding  participant.    Here,  again,  it  should  be  noted,  the  Spenserian  stanza 


670  NOTES  TO  SHELLEY 

is  a  lyre  of  subtle  power  and  varied  capacity.  Spenser,  B3n:on,  Shelley, 
and  Keats,  —  what  manifold  and  enchanting  strains  they  have  drawn  from 
this  instrument  !  —  Of  the  finest  elegies  in  the  English  language  four  are 
printed  in  full  in  this  volume  :  Milton's  Lycidas,  Gray's  Elegy,  Arnold's 
Rugby  Chapel,  and  Watson's  W ordswortli' s  Grave,  and  in  addition  to  the 
present  selection  from  Adonais  there  is  included  the  introduction  to  Tenny- 
son's In  Memoriam.  In  the  comparison  of  these  elegies  the  reflective  student 
will  find  much  food  for  thought, 

Adonais.  This  name  for  Keats  was  doubtless  suggested  by  the  Adonis 
of  Bion's  dirge,  —  a  Greek  (Alexandrian)  elegy  to  which  Shelley  was  indebted 
in  part  for  the  general  mechanism  of  the  first  half  of  his  poem.  The  word, 
'  Adonais,'  may  mean  a  poem  about  Adonis  ;  more  probably,  however — 
since  it  is  used  as  the  name  of  a  person  —  it  means  "  one  like  Adonis,  as 
dear  to  Urania,  the  goddess  of  heavenly  love  and  muse  of  high  poetry,  as 
Adonis  was  to  Aphrodite,"  or  one  who  like  the  mythical  Adonis  (Adon) 
rose  again  from  the  dead.     On  Adonis,  Bion,  etc.,  see  CI.  M.,  pp.  126-128. 

1-18.  In  previous  lines  of  the  poem  Shelley,  copying  the  same  classical 
device  that  Milton  used  in  Lycidas,  has  pictured  the  muse  and  various 
personifications  of  poetic  power  and  of  nature  as  lamenting  the  death  of 
Adonais.  Now  he  turns  to  a  grander  theme,  the  belief  that  the  dead  do 
not  perish,  but,  free  of  the  impediments  of  the  flesh,  enter  the  glorious  life 
of  the  spirit.  Milton  makes  a  similar  transition  at  line  165  of  Lycidas. 
Such  a  theme  is,  of  course,  characteristic  of  Christian  elegy.  1-9.  In  this 
and  the  following  stanzas  Shelley  boldly  declares  "  that  the  state  we  call 
death  is  to  be  preferred  to  that  which  we  call  life.  Keats  is  neither  dead 
nor  sleeping.  He  used  to  be  asleep,  perturbed  and  tantalized  by  the  dream 
which  is  termed  life.  Having  at  last  awakened  from  the  dream,  he  is  no 
longer  asleep  :  and,  if  life  is  no  more  than  a  dream,  neither  does  the  cessation 
of  life  deserve  to  be  named  death.  .  .  .  We,  the  so-called  living,  are  in  fact 
merely  beset  by  a  series  of  stormy  visions  which  constitute  life  ;  all  our 
efforts  are  expended  upon  mere  phantoms,  and  are  therefore  profitless  ; 
our  mental  conflict  is  an  act  of  trance,  exercised  upon  mere  nothings  " 
(W.  M.  Rossetti).  In  the  light  of  this  paraphrase  interpret  the  impressive 
figures  of  11.  5-9  :  what  is  the  spirit's  knife  ?  Why  '  invulnerable  nothings '  ? 
Why  are  our  hopes  termed  cold,  and  why  are  they  compared  to  the  gruesome 
cofl&n  worm  ?  10-18.  An  extension  of  the  previous  idea.  14.  contagion 
of  the  world's  slow  stain.  The  meaning  of  this  most  expressive  figure  is 
made  clear  by  the  examples  of  the  '  slow  stain '  in  1.  16.    18.  urn,  funeral  urn. 

19-54.  Nature,  previously  represented  as  mourning  for  Adonais,  shall 
instead  be  joyous  (19-27),  for  he  is  now  made  one  with  all  nature  and  is  a 
portion  of  its  loveliness  which  once,  in  his  poetry,  he  made  still  more  lovely 
(28-38).  His  spirit  is  united  with  the  great  Power  behind  all  life  (34-36), 
which  manifests  itself  plastically,  in  the  forms  of  the  sense-world,  though  the 
coarseness  of  the  matter  in  which  it  is  manifested  obscures  its  full  glory 
(39-45).    This  spiritual  splendor  of  all  life  of  all  time  may  not  be  eclipsed 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY  6^1 

by  death  (46-50),  and  the  spiritual  glory  of  the  so-called  dead  is  rediscovered 
whenever  youth,  struggling  to  rise  from  the  life  C  lair ')  of  sloth  and  selfishness, 
becomes  aware  of  the  solemn  mystery  of  existence,  for  then  youth  sees  be- 
neath the  veil  of  matter  and  form,  recognizes  and  loves  the  beauty  of  the 
spirit,  and  communicates  with  the  undying  souls  of  human  forms  long  dead 
—  their  spirits  being  tangibly  preserved  to  him  in  their  great  works  and 
present  influence  (50-54).  —  The  somewhat  pantheistic  nature  of  these 
conceptions  reminds  one  of  Wordsworth's  Spirit  of  Nature. 

55-72.  The  thought  of  11.  19-54  is  restated  —  the  one  Spirit  being  called 
Light,  Beauty,  Benediction,  Love,  Breath  —  and,  with  a  sort  of  prophecy 
of  his  own  death,  or  at  least  with  a  momentary  intuition  or  actual  experience 
of  the  spiritual  reality  of  which  he  has  been  writing,  is  brought  into  per- 
sonal relation  with  the  poet.  Indeed,  this  sublime  hymn  of  the  spirit  seems 
to  come  from  the  very  gate  of  Heaven  itself,  "  consuming  the  last  clouds  of 
cold  mortaUty."  —  The  force  of  the  word  *  Beacons'  (the  light  that  hghts 
the  homeward  way)  in  the  last  line  is  beautifully  appropriate.  Why  ?  — 
The  student  whose  heart  is  lifted  up  by  these  great  lines  may  enjoy  Dante's 
sublime  expression  of  the  same  ideas.  In  particular,  compare  11.  39-45,  55, 
58-62  with  the  first  three  lines  of  the  Paradiso  ;  11.  64-69  with  the  first 
fifteen  lines  of  the  second  canto  of  the  Paradiso  ;  and  the  whole  conception 
of  the  creative  and  moulding  (plastic)  Power  with  Dante's  description  of  his 
vision  of  God  {Paradiso,  Canto  XXXIII,  11.  82-93). 

To  the  successful  handling  of  this  great  theme  Shelley's  marvellous 
control  of  verbal  music  contributes  mightily.  The  prosody  —  the  perfect 
adaptation  of  sound  to  sense,  the  metrical  substitutions  and  variation  in 
the  position  of  the  caesura,  by  which  the  cadence  is  vitalized  and  enriched, 
the  splendor  of  the  Alexandrine  conclusions  to  each  stanza  —  the  student 
may  easily  learn  to  appreciate  if  he  will  repeatedly  read  the  lines  aloud, 
or  silently  to  the  inner  ear.  When  he  has  done  this,  he  will  find  further 
pleasure  in  reading  aloud,  for  comparison,  some  of  the  stanzas  of  the  Faerie 
Queen e,  Childe  Harold,  and  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  that  are  given  in  this  book. 
For  suggestions  see  Introduction  on  the  rhythm  of  verse,  melody,  harmony, 
and  on  the  elegy,  §§  20,  1,2;  21 ;  22 ;  24,  5 ;  30,  5. 

THE   SPIRIT  OF   POETRY  :   THE   GLORY  OF   PROMETHEUS 

These  selections  are  from  Shelley's  greatest  poem,  Prometheus  Un- 
bound (published  1820).  The  first,  in  which  is  described  the  poet's  power 
of  divining  or  creating  ideal  reahty,  is  from  Act  I  ;  the  second,  a  noble 
expression  of  what  constitutes  true  greatness,  spiritual  beauty,  and  freedom, 
closes  the  poem.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  is  there  a  better  statement  of  equal 
brevity,  of  the  essence  of  the  poetic  faculty  than  is  contained  in  the  former, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  definition  of  right  thought  and  right  action 
more  sublime  and  adequate  than  that  of  the  latter.  The  'Titan,'  of  course, 
is  Prometheus,  who  represents  in  the  poem  "  the  type  of  the  highest  per- 


672  NOTES  TO  KEATS 

fection  of  moral  and  intellectual  nature  impelled  by  the  purest  and  the 
truest  motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends."    See  CI.  M.,  pp.  8,  10-15. 

OZYMANDIAS 

This  is  not  only  Shelley's  greatest  sonnet,  but  one  of  the  finest  of  all 
sonnets.  It  is  a  striking  expression  of  two  ideas  that  continually  occur  in 
Shelley's  writings,  —  the  vainglory  of  kings  and  the  mutability  of  life.  The 
simple  but  masterful  reflection  of  human  passions,  the  sense  of  remote 
antiquity,  the  enveloping  loneliness  and  infinity  of  the  desert  ;  the  staccato 
beat  of  the  octave,  resolved  in  the  sonorous  rhythm  of  the  inscription  and 
succeeded  by  the  lingering  cadences  of  the  last  three  lines  with  their  quiet 
close  {cf.  11.  186-193  of  Lycidas,  and  note) :  these  are  some  of  the  impressive 
features  of  the  poem.  The  unusual  interweaving  of  the  rhymes  in  octave 
and  sestet  is  noteworthy.    The  sonnet  was  first  published  in  1818. 

Ozymandias.  A  corruption  of  one  of  the  names  of  Rameses  II  (c. 
1292-1225  B.C.),  the  most  famous  ruler  of  ancient  Eg3^t  and  its  greatest 
builder  of  temples  and  palaces.  Perhaps  he  was  the  Pharaoh  of  the  op- 
pression. In  many  places  in  Egypt  are  colossal  statues  of  him,  but  the  poem 
probably  refers  to  one  of  the  three  in  the  temple  known  as  the  Ramesseum, 
—  near  Thebes.  Diodorus,  the  Augustan  historian,  reports  that  on  one 
statue  was  this  inscription  :  "  I  am  Ozymandyas,  King  of  Kings  ;  if  any 
would  know  how  great  I  am,  and  where  I  lie,  let  him  excel  me  in  any  of  my 
works."  7-8.  survive  .  .  .  hand,  etc.  *  Survive  '  is  transitive  ;  its  ob- 
jects are  *  hand  '  and  '  heart.'  The  passions  stamped  on  this  lifeless  stone 
survive  the  sculptor's  hand  that  imitated  ('  mocked  ')  them  and  the  ruler's 
vainglorious  heart  that '  fed  '  them. 

KEATS  . 

THE  EVE   OF   ST.    AGNES 

St.  Agnes  was  a  Roman  maiden  who  suffered  martyrdom  under  the 
Emperor  Diocletian  about  300  a.d.  The  tradition  runs  that  not  long  after 
her  death  she  appeared  to  her  parents  in  a  vision  in  the  midst  of  angels  and 
accompanied  by  a  white  lamb.  The  lamb  was  henceforward  considered 
sacred  to  her,  and  the  custom  accordingly  arose  that  on  St.  Agnes's  Day 
(January  21)  the  nuns  of  the  church  should  bring  two  white  lambs  as  an 
offering  to  her  altar.  Various  superstitions  became  connected  with  her  name, 
among  others  the  belief  that  maidens  who  carefully  observed  certain  cere- 
monies might,  on  St.  Agnes's  eve  (January  20),  obtain  a  sight  of  their  future 
husbands.  On  this  tradition  Keats's  poem  is  founded.  As  a  narrative  it 
is  not  without  defects,  but  as  a  poem  of  sensuous  impressions  it  has  few 
equals.  Sight,  hearing,  taste,  smell,  feeling,  are  laid  under  tribute  and 
made  to  respond  to  the  keen  yet  delicAte  sensibilities  of  the  poet.  Few 
poets  have  succeeded  in  creating  an  atmosphere  so  dreamy,  so  enchanted, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  673 

so  full  of  beauty,  so  removed  from  the  common  world  of  our  everyday 
experiences.  In  many  respects  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  takes  us  back  to  the 
fairyland  of  Spenser.  On  the  metrical  structure  of  its  stanzas,  see  In- 
troduction, §  24,  5.  The  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  volume  of  1820, 
though  it  had  been  written  the  early  part  of  the  preceding  year. 

I-III.  Rehearse  the  various  ways  by  which  the  cold  is  suggested  in  these 
lines.  2.  for,  in  spite  of.  5.  Beadsman,  a  retainer  of  the  house  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  utter  prayers  for  his  benefactors.  The  original  but  now 
obsolete  meaning  of  bead  was  a  prayer,  told  :  see  note  to  VAlleg.  (67). 
6-9.  while  .  .  .  picture.  In  what  particulars  is  this  simile  thoroughly  "  in 
keeping"?  14-15.  dead  .  .  .  rails.  The  images  of  the  dead  ancestors 
of  the  household  are  carved  in  an  attitude  of  prayer.  Their  oratories,  or 
prayer  rooms,  are  the  little  railed-off  spaces  on  each  side  of  the  chapel  aisle. 
Their  enforced  imprisonment,  under  conditions  so  unpleasant,  suggests 
'  purgatorial.'  21.  Flattered.  Leigh  Hunt,  in  his  Imagination  and  Fancy, 
devotes  a  page  and  a  half  to  rather  over-enthusiastic  praise  of  the  aptness  of 
this  verb.  What  are  some  of  its  points  of  excellence  ?  22.  But  no.  To 
what  thought  in  the  beadsman's  mind  is  this  an  answer  ? 

IV-VIII.  What  means  are  used  by  the  poet  to  give  the  effect  of  space 
and  magnificence  in  Stanzas  IV  and  V  ?  Enumerate  the  details  by  which 
emphasis  is  given  to  the  introduction  of  the  principal  character,  Madelme. 
31.  snarling.  Aptness  of  word  ?  34-36.  The  carved  .  .  .  breasts.  De- 
scribe the  picture,  especially  noting  '  eager-eyed.'  37.  argent,  bright  or 
shining,  as  silver.  Why  this  color  rather  than  golden  ?  39-41.  Numerous 
.  .  .  romance.  Show  aptness  in  the  comparison.  56.  The  music  .  .  . 
pain  :  What  characteristic  of  the  music  is  suggested  by  the  words  '  yearning,' 
*  God  in  pain '  ?  58.  train,  of  the  ladies'  skirts,  60.  tiptoe,  an  adjective  mean- 
ing eager  yet  mincing.  62.  she  saw  not.  How  is  the  preoccupation  of 
Madehne  evidenced  in  Stanzas  VII  and  VHI  ?  70.  Hoodwinked.  Mean- 
ing and  syntax  ?  all  amort,  the  Anglicized  form  of  the  French  a  la  mort, 
as  if  dead.  71.  lambs  unshorn.  The  lambs  offered  at  the  altar  of  St. 
Agnes.  They  were  then  shorn  and  the  wool  spun  by  the  nuns.  See  intro- 
duction to  notes. 

IX- XII.  74.  across  the  moors.  In  what  country  and  at  what  time 
may  we  imagine  these  events  to  have  occurred  ?  76.  portal  (Lat.  porta),  a 
gate.  78.  All  saints.  What  is  gained  artistically  by  placing  these  scenes 
in  a  Catholic  environment  ?  Give  illustrations.  84.  Love's  fev'rous 
citadel.  Discuss  the  metaphor.  86.  Hyena.  Show  force  of  this  word 
here.  90.  beldame,  an  old  woman.  Look  up  derivation  and  history  of 
word.  100  ;  103.  dwarfish  Hildebrand  ;  old  Lord  Maurice.  Observe  the 
vividness  with  which  the  poet  "  hits  off  "  these  characters.  105.  Gossip. 
Note  the  history  of  this  word  :  (i)  a  sponsor  in  baptism  (A.-S.  god  -^sih,  a. 
God  alliance),  hence  a  godmother  ;  (2)  a  famihar  or  customary  acquain- 
tance ;  (3)  an  idle  tattler  ;  (4)  the  tattle  of  a  gossip.  In  what  sense  is  the 
word  used  here  ? 


674  NOTES  TO  KEATS 

Xni-XIX.  III.  well-a-day,  a  corruption  of  the  interjection  wel-a- 
way  (A.-S.  wa-la-wa),  alas,  112.  a  little  moonlight  room.  "The  poet 
does  not  make  his  '  little  moonlight  room  '  comfortable,  observe.  All  is 
still  wintry.  There  is  to  be  no  comfort  in  the  poem  but  what  is  given  by 
,love.  All  else  may  be  left  to  the  cold  walls  "  (Leigh  Hunt).  115.  by  the 
holy  loom  :  see  note  on  1.  71.  127.  Feebly  she  laugheth.  Why  does  she 
laugh  ?  Describe  the  picture  in  detail.  Discuss  the  figure  which  follows. 
129.  urchin.  Look  up  derivation  and  trace  history  of  word.  133.  brook. 
This  word  is  used  inaccurately  here.  WTiat  does  the  poet  evidently  intend 
to  say  ?  156.  passing-bell,  a  tolling  of  a  bell  to  signify  that  a  soul  has 
passed  or  is  passing  from  the  body  (formerly  to  invoke  prayers  for  the  dying) . 
171.  Since  .  .  .  debt.  Forman,  the  editor  of  Keats,  explains  this  line  by 
interpreting  Merlin's  monstrous  debt  as  "  his  monstrous  existence,  which 
he  owed  to  a  demon,"  and  repaid  when  he  died  or  disappeared  through 
means  of  a  charm  which  he  had  revealed  to  Vivien,  and  which  she  used  on 
him.  These  are  legendary  characters  of  the  time  of  King  Arthur.  The 
night  on  which  the  magician  was  thus  spellbound  by  his  wily  sweetheart 
was  attended  by  a  fearful  storm.  Does  '  such  a  night,'  etc.  (170),  refer 
to  this  storm  or  to  the  spirit  of  enchantment  in  the  air  ? 

XX-XXVI.  What  are  the  characteristic  qualities  of  the  descriptions  in 
Stanzas  XXIV  and  XXV  ?  Note  what  senses  are  appealed  to.  173. 
cates,  luxurious  foods  or  delicacies.  Look  up  derivation,  and  cf.  cater  and 
caterer;  also  'catering'  (177).  174.  tambour  frame.  What  is  this? 
175.  lute.  Why  introduced  ?  See  11.  289-293.  193.  missioned,  in  its 
radical  sense  of  sent  (Lat.  missum).  unaware,  unexpectedly.  198.  frayed, 
terrified.  The  situation  in  this  stanza  is  interesting  ;  the  trembling  Angela 
startled  by  the  trembling  Madeline,  etc.  In  this  way  fill  out  the  picture. 
200.  Its  .  .  .  died.  What  kind  of  figure  ?  "  The  smoke  of  the  wax  taper 
seems  almost  as  ethereal  and  fair  as  the  moonlight,  and  both  suit  each 
other  and  the  heroine  "  (Leigh  Hunt).  203.  No  uttered  syllable.  Why  ? 
207.  heart-stifled.  How  does  this  apply  to  Madeline  ?  208-216.  A  case- 
ment .  .  .  kings.  Leigh  Hunt  speaks  of  this  stanza  as  "  a  burst  of  richness, 
noiseless,  colored,  suddenly  enriching  the  moonlight,  as  if  a  door  of  heaven 
were  opened."  Note  here  as  in  Stanzas  IV  and  XXV-XXXI  the  vivid- 
ness of  the  derived  or  memory  images  and  see  Introduction,  §  7.  Try 
to  gain  a  definite  picture  of  this  '  triple-arched '  window.  Where  was  the 
carving  ?  Of  what  size  and  shape  were  the  panes  ?  What  were  the  '  em- 
blazonings '  and  the  '  twihght  saints '  ?  Where  was  the  '  shielded 
scutcheon,'  and  in  what  sense  did  it '  blush  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings  '  ? 
218.  gules,  used  poetically  for  a  red  color.  218-222.  gules,  Rose-bloom, 
soft  amethyst  ;  glory.  On  this  passage  Sidney  Colvin  remarks  :  "  Ob- 
servation, I  beheve,  shows  that  moonhght  has  not  the  power  to  transmit 
the  hues  of  painted  glass,  as  Keats  in  this  celebrated  passage  represents  it. 
Let  us  be  grateful  for  the  error,  if  error  it  is,  which  has  led  him  to  heighten 
by  these  saintly  splendors  of  color  the  sentiment  of  a  scene  wherein  a  volup- 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  675 

tuous  glow  is  so  exquisitely  attempered  with  chivalrous  chastity  and  awe." 
221.  amethyst.  Look  up  the  derivation  of  the  word,  and  the  meaning  as 
applied  to  heraldry.  228.  warmed  jewels.  Here  we  have  a  good  instance 
of  the  poet's  perfection  of  taste.  Madehne  is  to  be  the  central  figure. 
Accordingly,  Keats  resists  the  temptation  to  enlarge  upon  the  brilliancy  of 
the  gems,  but  contents  himself  with  an  epithet  "  breathing  the  very  life  of 
the  wearer."     234.  dares  not  look  behind  :  see  1.  53. 

XXVII- XX XIII.  237.  poppied  warmth.  Explain  the  epithet  and 
figure.  241.  Clasped  .  .  .  pray.  A  '  missal '  is  a  mass-book  or  prayer- 
book,  swart  Paynims  are  dark  or  swarthy  pagans.  Is  the  missal  *  clasped  ' 
because  it  is  never  used  in  pagan  lands,  or  to  shield  its  contents  ?  242. 
Blinded.     What  does  this  figure  mean  ?     244.  so.     Force  of  this  adverb  ? 

250.  Noiseless  .  .  .  wilderness.     Discuss  the  aptness  of  the  comparison. 

251.  hushed  carpet.  What  kind  of  figure  ?  This  is  certainly  an  anachro- 
nism. Floors  in  medieval  times  were  strewn  with  rushes.  Cf.  Sir  Launfal 
(103).  For  '  carpet '  used  in  its  older  and  proper  sense,  see  1.  285.  253. 
faded  moon.  Discuss  the  epithet.  Enumerate  the  elements  of  color  and  of 
sound  in  this  stanza.  257.  Morphean  amulet,  charm  to  insure  sleep,  lest 
the  music  awaken  Madeline,  260.  Affray,  same  as  fray  (198).  262. 
azure-lidded  sleep.  Discuss  the  epithet.  264-275.  While  .  .  .  light. 
These  lines  were  evidently  introduced  because  Keats  could  not  resist  this 
chance  of  appeal  to  the  sense  of  taste,  thus  adding  to  the  richness  and 
Oriental  coloring  of  his  picture.  .For  the  apt  sequence  of  consonants,  see 
Introduction,  §  21,  i,  3.  Does  this  Feast  of  St.  Agnes  add  to  the  poem  ? 
266.  soother,  more  sweet  or  delightful.  267.  tinct.  (Cf.  tint.)  These 
syrups  were  evidently  given  a  richer  appearance  by  being  stained  with 
cinnamon.  268.  argosy.  Derivation  ?  Cf.  Merchant  of  Venice,  I,  i,  9. 
269.  Fez,  a  province  in  northwestern  Africa.  270.  silken  Samarcand. 
A  city  in  Russian  Turkestan,  Central  Asia.  Why  '  silken  '  ?  cedared 
Lebanon.  A  province  of  Turkey  in  Syria,  southwestern  Asia.  Why 
*  cedared  '  ?  271.  delicates.  Same  as  *  cates  '  (173).  277.  eremite,  an 
older  and  more  correct  form  of  the  word  hermit.  279.  soul  doth  ache  : 
cf.  'half-anguished,'  1.  255.  285.  carpet,  table-cover — the  original  mean- 
ing of  carpet.  As  here  used  the  word  is  not  an  anachronism.  288.  woofed, 
woven.  289.  hollow,  resounding.  291.  ancient  ditty  :  see  note  on  La 
Belle  Dame,  etc.  This  French  poem  was  written  early  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  by  Alain  Chartier.  292.  Provence,  an  old  province  in  south- 
eastern France.     296.  affrayed  :  see  1.  260,  and  cf.  the  modem  form,  afraid. 

XX  XIV- XX  XIX.  Observe  in  this  passage  how  cleverly  the  poet 
miinages  the  difficult  situation  of  the  awakening  of  Madeline.  317.  volup- 
tuous, in  its  radical  sense  of  causing  delight,  caressingly  pleasing  to  the  ear. 
322-324.  meantime  .  .  .  window-panes.  Why  does  the  poet  make  the 
weather  change  from  chill  moonlight  to  gusty  storm  ?  325.  flaw,  a  sudden 
burst  or  gust  of  wind  of  short  duration.  Purpose  of  the  descriptive  lines 
325  and  327  ?     336.  Thy  .  .  .  dyed.     What  does  this  line  mean  ?     Is  it 


676  NOTES  TO  KEATS 

hopelessly  extravagant,  as  some  editors  hold,  or  can  you  justify  it  ?  344. 
haggard,  wild  or  untamed,  boon.  Why  ?  349.  Rhenish,  Rhine  wine. 
Cf.  Merchant  of  Venice,  I,  2.  mead,  a  fermented  drink  made  of  water  and 
honey  with  malt,  yeast,  etc. 

XL-XLII.  353.  sleeping  dragons.  What  is  meant?  360.  carpets: 
see  note  on  1.  251.  361.  They  glide.  Would  it  have  been  better  to  repre- 
sent further  perils  in  leaving  the  house  ?  Discuss.  365.  wakeful  blood- 
hound. Why  introduced  ?  370.  ay,  ages  long  ago.  Observe  the  art  by 
which  the  poet  throws  a  veil  of  mystery  about  his  poem  by  assigning  it  to 
the  remote  past,  and  by  removing  the  only  other  characters  that  have 
entered  into  the  story,  —  "  the  figures  of  the  beadsman  and  the  nurse,  who 
live  just  long  enough  to  share  in  the  wonders  of  the  night  and  to  die  quietly 
of  old  age  when  their  parts  are  over  "  ;  as,  indeed,  was  foretold  in  11.  22-23 
and  155-156.  The  castle  is  left  to  the  drunken  baron  and  his  warrior- 
guests,  while  the  lovers  are  *  fled  away  into  the  storm.' 

ODE   TO    A   NIGHTINGALE 

The  note  of  sadness,  distinct  in  this  poem,  is  partly  explained  when  we 
consider  the  date  of  its  production,  and  the  events  preceding  it.  Consump- 
tion was  hereditary  in  the  family  of  Keats,  and  during  the  latter  months  of 
1 818  the  poet  had  been  witness  to  the  struggles  of  his  brother  against  that 
disease.  The  brother  died  in  December,  and  doubtless  about  this  time 
Keats  began  to  foresee  the  same  fate  for  himself,  although  the  malady  did  not 
define  itself  until  a  year  later.  This  ode,  written  in  the  early  part  of  1819, 
when  the  writer's  sorrow  was  at  its  height,  furnishes  an  interesting  companion 
picture  to  Shelley's  Skylark.  For  another  contrast  between  lark  and  night- 
ingale, see  VAlleg.  (41-44)  and  //  Pens.  (56-58). 

I.  The  stanzas  ot'  the  poem  are  uniform.  What  is  their  metre  and  rhyme 
system  ?  4.  Lethe.  For  this  river  of  forgetfulness,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p. 
51.  6.  too  happy.  The  poet's  heartache  comes  from  the  sensitive  and 
exquisite  sympathy  he  feels  with  the  bird  ;  his  sympathetic  and  sensuous 
pleasure  has  in  its  intensity  become  pain.  7-10.  That  .  .  .  ease.  Mean- 
ing of  '  that '  and  syntax  of  the  clause  ?  The  correct  answer  wiU  make  clear 
the  meaning.  7.  Dryad.  Why  does  he  call  the  bird  a  Dryad  ?  See  CI. 
D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  45. 

II-IV,  1.  34.  13.  Flora,  the  goddess  of  flowers.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M., 
pp.  39,  61.  14.  Provengal,  a  district  in  southern  France  noted  for  its  wines 
and  for  the  merry  out-of-door  life  of  its  people,  its  open-air  or  '  sunburnt ' 
mirth.  See  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  (292).  16.  Hippocrene,  a  fountain  of  the 
Muses  on  Mt.  Helicon.  See  CI.  M.,  p.  518.  Explain  the  metonymy.  23- 
24.  The  weariness  .  .  .  groan.  This  view  of  the  world  is  one  often  ex- 
pressed by  poets.     Cf.  Wordsworth's  Tintern  Abbey  (52-53):  — 

"  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world." 


ODE  ON  A   GRECIAN   URN  677 

26.  youth,  evidently  thinking  of  his  brother.  3i-34-  Away  .  .  .  retards. 
Here  he  determines  to  forget  the  world,  and  to  find  the  fairyland  of  the 
nightingale  through  the  power  of  '  Poesy  '  rather  than  of  wine.  32.  Bac- 
chus :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  44.  pards.  Look  up  and  cf.  leopard  (from 
Lat.  leo,  lion  +  pard).     These  animals  were  sacred  to  Bacchus. 

IV,  1.  ss~^-  A  description  of  the  land  of  Poesy,  home  of  the  nightingale. 
35.  Already  with  thee.  He  suddenly  imagines  himself  in  that  land.  39-40. 
Save  .  .  .  ways,  as  the  swaying  branches  of  the  trees  admit  the  fitful  light. 
43.  embalmed  darkness,  darkness  permeated  by  the  balmy  odor  of  the 
season's  fragrance.  What  kind  of  figure  ?  Throughout  these  Unes  note  the 
appeal  to  the  sense  of  smell.  50.  The  .  .  .  eves.  Observe  the  onoma- 
topoeia. 

Vl-Vni.  51.  Darkling,  in  the  dark.  I  listen,  coordinate  with  '  it  seems 
rich.'  for,  inasmuch  as  (a  subordinate  conjunction).  Its  clause  modifies 
*  seems  rich.'  62.  No  .  .  .  down.  A  fine  example  of  a  line  inevitable  in 
thought  and  grace.  It  recalls  somewhat  the  idea  of  11.  23-24.  The  stanza  is 
beyond  praise  —  replete  with  poetic  touchstones.  65.  found  a  path.  Ex- 
plain this  beautiful  metaphor.  67.  alien  corn,  the  wheat  and  barley  which 
Ruth  gleaned  in  the  land  of  Boaz.  See  the  book  of  Ruth  ii.  3,  23.  70. 
faery  lands  forlorn :  fairy  lands  forsaken  by  those  who  live  in  the  light  of 
common  day.  The  chance  word  '  forlorn  '  awakens  him  into  the  real 
world.  The  last  lines  are  unsurpassable  in  suggestion  and  charm.  75-80. 
Adieu  .  .  .  sleep.  In  some  respects  these  lines  may  be  compared  with  the 
last  stanza  of  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.  75.  fades.  Justify  the  figure.  Ob- 
serve the  quiet  close,  and  see  note  on  Lye.  (186-193). 

ODE  ON   A   GRECIAN   URN 

The  Grecian  Urn  and  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  have  been  called  "  the 
twin  peaks  "  of  Keats 's  verse.  The  subject  of  the  ode  was  especially  at 
tractive  to  Keats,  for  no  one  had  a  deeper  sympathy  with  the  artistic  spirit 
of  Hellas  than  he.  "  I  have  loved,"  he  says,  "  the  principle  of  beauty  in  all 
things  "  ;  and  he  recognized  in  the  Greeks  the  most  perfect  portrayers  of 
the  beautiful.  He  was  a  devoted  student  of  their  plastic  art  through  the 
specimens  preserved  in  the  British  Museum.  And  from  a  comparison  of 
these  sculptures  with  engravings  of  others,  he  doubtless  derived  the  con- 
ception of  his  Grecian  Urn  ;  for  it  has  not  been  discovered  that  any  single 
work  of  art  stood  as  model.  This,  like  most  of  Keats's  other  odes,  was 
written  in  18 19.  The  metrical  structure  of  its  stanzas  may  profitably  be 
compared  with  that  of  the  Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

1-10.  1-3.  bride  of  quietness,  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian.  Comment  upon  the  figures  and  show  how  each  applies 
to  the  Grecian  Urn.  5-10.  What  .  .  .  ecstasy.  Note  the  subtle  indirect- 
ness of  the  description.  5.  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts.  Notice  the  imagery 
of  these  words.     7.  Tempe,  a  vale  in  Thessaly. 

11-30.     These  lines  furnish  an  admirable  contrast  between  the  shortness 


678  NOTES  TO  KEATS 

and  decay  of  life  and  the  abiding  beauty  of  art.  The  creator  of  the  urn  has 
arrested  his  characters  at  a  single  significant  moment  of  their  lives.  They 
accordingly  Hve  for  us  in  permanent  beauty  and  imaginative  appeal.  1 1-12. 
those  unheard  Are  sweeter.  Explain.  See  Introduction,  §  21,  i,  3,  on 
tone-color  and  melody  in  verse,  and  illustrate  from  this  stanza.  13.  sen- 
sual, here  means  physical  or  bodily.  18.  winning  near,  approaching.  25. 
More  happy  love,  happier  even  than  the  boughs  or  the  melodist.  Its  antici- 
pation is  far  more  to  be  desired  than  the  cloying  realities  of  actual  life  (29- 
30).     28.  passion.     Object  of  '  above.' 

31-40.  31.  sacrifice.  The  central  figures  of  the  urn  appear  to  be  en- 
gaged in  sacrificial  procession.  38.  little  town,  whose  inhabitants  have 
been  caught  by  the  hand  of  the  artist  and  placed  upon  this  urn. 

41-50.  41.  brede,  braid,  fillet.  44-45.  tease  .  .  .  eternity.  The  urn 
like  eternity  exhausts  our  powers  of  thought.  46-50.  When  .  .  .  know. 
Again  the  permanence  of  art  is  emphasized  —  art  that  shall  teach  to  future 
generations  what  was  to  Keats  a  cardinal  doctrine,  that  Beauty  is  only 
another  name  for  Truth,  and  that  of  all  things  she  alone  is  imperishable. 
What  lines  of  this  ode  are  worthy  to  be  accepted  as  poetic  touchstones,  and 
why  ?     (See  Introduction,  §  34.) 

LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  was  written  probably  during  the  early  part  of 
1819.  The  title,  which  is  taken  from  an  old  French  poem,  seems  early  to 
have  caught  Keats's  fancy,  as  is  indicated  by  the  use  made  of  it  in  the  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes,  1.  292.  Keats's  mystical  ballad,  however,  is  entirely  his  own  inven- 
tion, and  is  justly  considered  to  be  one  of  our  best  poetic  revivals  of  medieval 
romanticism.  Sidney  Colvin,  in  his  Life  of  Keats,  says,  "  The  union  of 
infinite  tenderness  with  a  weird  intensity,  the  conciseness  and  purity  of  the 
poetic  form,  the  wild  yet  simple  magic  of  the  cadences,  the  perfect,  inevitable 
union  of  sound  and  sense,  make  of  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  the  master- 
piece not  only  among  the  shorter  poems  of  Keats,  but  even  (if  any  single 
masterpiece  must  be  chosen)  among  them  all."  As  regards  the  poetic 
symbolism  of  the  verses,  Colvin  continues  :  "  Keats's  ballad  can  hardly 
be  said  to  tell  a  story  ;  but  rather  sets  before  us,  with  imagery  drawn  from  ■ 
the  medieval  world  of  enchantment  and  knight-errantry,  a  type  of  the 
wasting  power  of  love,  when  either  adverse  fate  or  deluded  choice  makes  of 
love  not  a  blessing  but  a  bane.  Every  reader  must  feel  how  truly  the  imagery 
expresses  the  passion  :  how  powerfully,  through  these  fascinating  old-world 
symbols,  the  universal  heart  of  man  is  made  to  speak." 

on  first  looking  into  chapman's  homer 

Though  as  a  writer  of  sonnets  Keats  cannot  compare  with  Milton  in 
quality,  or  with  Wordsworth  in  either  quantity  or  quality,  he  probably  ought 
to  be  ranked  above  most  other  writers  of  this  form  of  verse.    His  sonnets 


HORATIUS  679 

are  mostly  of  the  strict  Italian  type,  described  in  the  Introduction,  §§26; 
30,  6.  Examine  the  sonnets  of  this  book,  comparing  the  skill  by  which  this 
form  of  verse  has  been  written  by  various  poets.  See  pp.  40,  44-45,  87-88, 
174-175,  239,  261,  461,  471,  571,  573-574- 

As  we  have  noted,  Keats,  though  handicapped  by  lack  of  knowledge  of 
the  Greek  language,  had  an  intellectual  and  emotional  sympathy  with  the 
spirit  of  Greek  art  and  literature.  On  coming  to  London  the  young  poet  was 
accustomed  to  spend  his  evenings  reading  with  his  friend  Cowden  Clarke. 
One  of  the  books  they  thus  attacked  was  a  borrowed  copy  of  Chapman's 
Homer,  which  they  read  far  into  the  night.  On  coming  down  to  breakfast 
next  morning,  Clarke  found  awaiting  him  this  sonnet,  which  Keats  had  writ- 
ten since  leaving  him  a  few  hours  before.  This  was  sometime  during  the 
summer  of  181 5,  when  Keats  was  only  twenty  years  of  age,  and  had  as  yet 
done  nothing  to  show  his  power  as  a  poet.  Yet  the  sonnet  is  not  only  his 
best,  but  is  one  of  the  best  of  aU  English  sonnets. 

What  are  the  '  realms  of  gold,'  the  '  states,'  '  kingdoms,'  and  *  western 
islands  '  of  11.  1-4  ?  Why  '  fealty  to  Apollo  '  ?  Why  '  deep-browed  '  (6)  ? 
'  Chapman  '  (8),  poet  and  dramatist,  was  a  contemporary  of  Shakespeare. 
The  tribute  which  Keats  pays  him  in  this  sonnet  is  well  deserved,  for  his 
translations  rank -among  the  best  in  the  English  language.  'Cortez  '  (11) : 
It  was  Balboa  and  not  Cortez  who  discovered  the  Pacific  ;  but  as  Mr.  Colvin 
says,  "What  does  it  matter  ?  "  *  Darien '  (14)  refers  to  the  Isthmus  of  Panama. 

MACAULAY 

HORATTOS 

H  or  alius  is  the  first  of  Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  a  collection  of 
four  stirring  ballads,  published  in  1842.  In  a  preface  to  the  Lays  the  poet 
states  his  grounds  for  beheving  that  the  early  Romans  once  possessed  a  con- 
siderable volume  of  ballad-poetry,  which,  after  being  transformed  into  his- 
tory, had  been  allowed  to  perish.  As  to  H  or  alius,  he  says  :  "  There  can  be 
little  doubt  that  among  those  parts  of  early  Roman  history  which  had  a 
poetic  origin  was  the  legend  of  Horatius  Codes.  .  .  .  The  following  ballad 
is  supposed  to  have  been  made  about' a  hundred  and  twenty  years  after  the 
war  which  it  celebrates,  and  just  before  the  taking  of  Rome  by  the  Gauls. 
The  imaginary  Roman  author  seems  to  have  been  an  honest  citizen,  proud 
of  the  military  glory  of  his  country,  sick  of  the  disputes  of  factions,  and  much 
given  to  pining  after  good  old  times  which  had  really  never  existed." 

As  is  shown  by  the  heading  of  the  poem,  Macaulay  supposes  his  "  honest 
citizen  "  to  have  made  this  ballad  about  three  hundred  and  sixty  years  after 
the  founding  of  Rome,  or  393  B.C.  It  need  not  detract  from  our  enjoyment 
of  the  story  to  learn  that  there  is  little  or  no  historic  foundation  for  the  legend 
of  Horatius.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  according  to  the  Roman  historian,  Tacitus, 
Porsena's  expedition  was  entirely  successful,  and  Rome  passed  for  a  time 


68o  NOTES  TO  MACAU  LAY 

under  the  Etruscan  yoke.  The  tale  of  Horatius  and  his  two  companions 
was  no  doubt  fabricated  to  increase  the  patriotic  ardor  of  the  Romans,  and 
to  help  them  forget  the  chagrin  of  defeat.  But  the  historical  accuracy  of  the 
story  is  a  matter  of  only  secondary  importance.  As  Professor  Morley  says 
in  his  introduction  to  the  Lays,  "  The  songs  of  the  people  were  free  to  sup- 
press a  great  defeat  and  put  in  its  place  a  myth  of  a  heroic  deed  :  some  small 
fact  serving  as  seed  that  shall  grow  and  blossom  out  into  a  noble  tale." 

I-II.  Indicate  the  topic  which  these  stanzas  develop,  i.  Lars,  a  title 
of  honor  given  by  Romans  to  the  Etruscan  kings.  Porsena,  king  of  Clusium, 
who,  when  summoned  to  the  aid  of  Tarquinius  Superbus,  completely  con- 
quered Rome.  See  introduction  to  these  notes.  Clusium,  the  most  impor- 
tant of  the  twelve  cities  of  the  Etruscan  confederation,  situated  in  the  fertile 
valley  of  the  river  Clanis,  a  tributary  of  the  Tiber.  2.  Nine  Gods,  the  nine 
great  Etruscan  gods,  hurlers  of  the  thunderbolt,  3.  house  of  Tarquin.  The 
family  of  Tarquinius  Superbus,  the  seventh  and  last  of  the  legendary  kings  of 
Rome,  had  been  expelled  from  the  city,  in  consequence  of  a  brutal  assault 
made  upon  Lucretia,  a  Roman  matron,  by  Sextus,  the  second  son  of  Tar- 
quin. Porsena  evidently  considered  this  expulsion  of  the  Tarquins  a 
*  wrong  '  (1.  4),  and  led  in  this,  the  third  attempt  to  restore  them  to  power. 
10.  East  .  .  .  north  :  see  note  on  1.  23  below.  11.  ride.-  Explain  change 
of  tense.  What  is  the  verse-form  of  this  poem  ?  How  does  it  differ  from 
that  of  The  Ancient  Mariner?  (See  notes  on  The  Ancient  Mariner  and 
Introduction,  §24,  3,  5  ;  on  the  Ballad  see  §  31,  3.) 

III-V.  Give  topics  as  before.  23.  beech  and  pine  :  cf.  among  many 
other  instances  11.  8,  12,  and  20-22.  This  is  one  of  the  most  marked  charac- 
teristics of  Macaulay's  style,  i.e.  the  preference  for  the  definite  and  concrete 
instead  of  the  general  and  abstract.  25.  purple  Apennine.  Why '  purple  '  ? 
26.  Volaterrae,  one  of  the  twelve  cities  of  the  Etruscan  league,  '  lordly  '  be- 
cause on  the  summit  of  a  high  and  precipitous  hill.  30.  Populonia,  the 
chief  seacoast  town  of  Etruria,  situated  on  a  high  peninsula,  near  the  island  of 
'  Ilva  '  (Elba),  and  within  sight  of  the  large  island  of  Sardinia.  34.  Pisae, 
one  of  the  twelve  Etruscan  cities,  situated  on  the  bank  of  the  river  Arnus 
(Arno)  a  few  miles  from  its  mouth,  and  on  a  good  harbor,  hence  11.  34-37. 

36.  Massilia.     Marseilles,  in  France,     triremes.     Meaning  and  derivation  ? 

37.  fair-haired  slaves,  evidently  on  their  way  from  northern  Gaul  to  the  slave 
marts  of  Italy.  38.  Clanis  :  see  note  on  1.  i.  40.  Cortona.  Still  another 
of  the  twelve  cities  of  the  league,  on  a  lofty  hill  about  nine  miles  north  of 
Lake  Trasimene. 

VI-VIII.  Give  topics.  42-49.  Tall  ,  .  .  mere.  Why  this  detail  re- 
garding the  height  of  the  oaks,  the  fatness  of  the  stags,  etc.?  Show  relation 
of  this  stanza  to  the  next.  43.  Auser.  A  small  river  formerly  tributary  of 
the  Arno.  See  note  1.  34.  Its  channel  has  become  diverted.  The  present 
name  of  the  river  is  the  Serchio.  Why  '  dark  '  ?  45.  Ciminian,  a  wooded 
mountain  range  extending  from  the  Tiber  southwest  to  the  sea.  46.  Clitum- 
nus,  a  small  tributary  of  the  Tiber  draining  a  valley  of  rich  pasture  lands. 


HORATIUS  68l 

49.  Volsinian  mere.  The  modern  Lago  di  Bolsena,  a  lake  of  southern 
Etruria.  '  Mere '  (lake)  and  marsh  (swampy  land  such  as  frequently  borders 
lakes)  are  derived  from  Lat.  tnare  (sea).  52.  green  path.  Why  '  green  '  ? 
58.  Arretium,  the  modern  Arezzo,  birthplace  of  Petrarch.  Arretium,  one 
of  the  most  powerful  of  the  twelve  cities  of  the  league,  was  situated  in  the 
upper  valley  of  the  Arno,  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines.  60.  Umbro,  modern 
Ombrone,  a  large  river  of  Etruria  between  the  Arno  and  the  Tiber.  62. 
Luna,  the  most  northerly  town  of  Etruria,  famous  for  its  wines.  59-64. 
old  men,  young  boys,  girls.  Explain  why.  Note  here  and  elsewhere  the 
preponderance  of  derived,  or  remembered,  images,  and  see  Introduction, 
§§6;  7. 

IX-X.  Give  topic.  66.  prophets.  Etruscan  augurs  whose  duty  it  was 
to  interpret  the  will  of  the  gods.  71.  turned  the  verses  o'er,  i.e.  pondered 
over  their  ancient  sacred  books  of  prophecy.  72.  Traced  .  .  .  right.  The 
Etruscans,  like  some  of  the  peoples  of  western  Asia,  wrote  from  the  right  to 
the  left,  linen,  on  which  early  books  were  sometimes  written.  79.  dome, 
palace  (from  Lat.  domus,  house).  80.  Nurscia,  an  Etruscan  goddess  of 
Fortune.  81.  golden  shields,  the  twelve  sacred  shields  of  Rome,  dating 
from  the  time  of  Numa,  the  second  legendary  king. 

XI- XII.  Give  topic.  83.  tale,  number.  See  note  on  UAlleg.  (67). 
86.  Sutrium,  a  small  town  in  southern  Etruria,  and  about  thirty  miles  north 
of  Rome.  96.  Tusculan  Mamilius,  Octavius  Mamilius  (son-in-law  of  Tar- 
quinius),  a  leader  of  Tusculum,  a  city  fifteen  miles  southeast  of  Rome. 
Owing  to  his  power  and  to  his  connection  with  the  Tarquins,  he  was  made 
leader  of  the  Latin  allies  of  Porsena. 

XIII- XV.  Give  topic.  98.  yellow,  an  adjective  commonly  used  in 
describing  the  Tiber.  This  color  is  probably  due  to  the  red  volcanic  earth 
which  forms  the  river  bed.  100.  champaign.  Look  up  meaning  and  deriva- 
tion, comparing  with  camp,  campus,  campaign,  and  champagne.  115. 
skins  of  wine,  bags  of  goatskin  in  which  wine  was  carried.  116.  endless. 
Describe  scene.  117.  kine,  an  old  plural  of  cow.  121.  roaring  gate.  Why 
*  roaring  '  ?     Name  all  the  subjects  of  '  choked.' 

XVI- XIX.  Give  topics.  122.  rock  Tarpeian,  a  steep  rock,  eighty  feet 
high,  overlooking  the  Roman  Forum.  See  Tarpeia  in  CI.  D.,  or  among 
Names  of  Fiction  in  Diet.  124.  blazing  villages.  Explain.  126.  Fathers, 
the  Senators,  who  were  generally  old  men.  See  derivation  of  Senate. 
129.  tidings  :  see  next  stanza.  133.  Crustumerium,  an  ancient  town  of 
Latium.  134.  Ostia.  The  seaport  of  Rome,  fifteen  miles  distant  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Tiber.  134  ;  136.  Verbenna  ;  Astur.  Names  of  Etruscan 
chiefs,  invented  by  Macaulay.  136.  Janiculum,  a  hill  across  the  Tiber,  just 
outside  Rome.  138.  I  wis,  surely.  An  adverb  sometimes  written  ywis. 
Cf.  the  German  word  gezviss.  140.  But,  but  that  ;  that  did  not.  142. 
Consul,  one  of  the  two  chief  magistrates  who  ruled  Rome  after  the  expulsion 
of  the  kings.  144.  gowns,  togas,  which  would  hinder  rapid  walking.  145. 
them.     In  form  a  personal  pronoun,  here  used  as  a  reflexive.     150.  roundly, 


682  NOTES  TO  MACAU  LAY 

plainly  and  to  the  point.  151.  bridge,  a  very  old  wooden  bridge  across  the 
Tiber  from  Rome  to  Janiculum. 

XX-XXV.  Give  topic.  163.  red  whirlwind.  Note  that  the  forces 
are  coming  so  near  that  the  color  of  the  dust  can  be  seen,  and  coming  so  fast 
that  the  '  storm  '  is  now  a  '  whirlwind.'  165.  rolling  cloud.  Explain. 
162-173.  And  .  .  .  spears.  Show  how  rhyme  and  metre  of  this  long 
stanza  help  to  picture  a  hurried  approach.  177.  twelve  fair  cities,  of  the 
Etruscan  confederation.  178.  Clusium  :  see  note  on  1.  i.  i8o-i8i.  Um- 
brian,  Gaul,  both  often  invaded  by  the  Etruscans.  184.  port  and  vest, 
demeanor  and  dress,  crest,  the  plumes  on  his  helmet.  185.  Lucumo,  a 
name  given  to  an  Etruscan  noble.  186.  Cilnius  of  Arretium,  the  head  of 
a  noble  Etruscan  family.  187.  Astur,  from  Luna.  See  note  on  1.  136. 
fourfold  shield,  a  shield  consisting  of  four  layers  of  hide.  188.  brand, 
a  sword,  so*called  from  its  flashing  brightness,  may  wield  :  see  1.  355. 
189.  Tolumnius,  another  Etruscan  chief.  191.  Verbenna  :  see  note  on 
1. 134.  197.  Mamilius  :  see  1. 96  and  note.  199-200.  Sextus  .  .  .  shame  : 
see  note  on  1.  3. 

XXVI- XXX.  Give  topic.  217.  Horatius,  a  member  of  the  Lucretian 
tribe  of  the  patricians.  The  other  patrician  tribes  were  the  Ramnian  and 
the  Titian.  220.  soon  or  late.  How  do  we  ordinarily  express  this  ?  229- 
230.  holy  maidens  .  .  .  flame.  The  Vestal  virgins,  six  in  number,  chosen 
from  the  three  patrician  families.  It  was  their  duty  to  keep  burning  the 
*  eternal  flame  '  on  Vesta's  altar.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  35.  237.  strait. 
Do  not  confuse  with  straight.    Look  up  in  Diet. 

XX  XI- XX  XIV.  Give  topic.  253.  Rome's  quarrel,  foreign  war 
waged  by  Rome.  261.  lands  .  .  .  portioned,  public  lands  acquired  by 
conquest,  and  rented  out  by  the  state  to  private  persons.  Owing  to  their 
poUtical  influence,  the  patricians,  in  early  times,  usually  secured  the  larger 
share  of  the  land,  thus  causing  perpetual  grievance  to  the  plebeians.  See 
introduction  to  these  notes.  262.  spoils  .  .  .  sold.  This  fixes  the  supposed 
time  of  the  ballad,  since,  in  391  B.C.,  Camillus,  a  Roman  commander  at  Veil, 
was  thus  accused  of  unfair  distribution  of  spoils  of  battle.  267.  Tribunes, 
first  appointed  in  494  b.c,  to  protect  the  interests  of  the  plebeians  against 
patrician  oppression.  Their  numbers  were  successively  two,  five,  and  ten. 
beard,  to  oppose  defiantly  ;  originally  to  grasp  a  man  by  the  beard.  268. 
Fathers  :  see  note  on  1.  126.  269-270.  As  .  .  .  cold.  Show  how  internal 
dissension  thus  decreases  national  spirit.  274.  harness,  armor.  278.  crow, 
crowbar.     Why  so  called  ? 

XXXV-XXXVI.  Give  topic.  Stanzas  XXXV  and  XXI  have  been 
called  the  finest  of  the  poem.  In  what  respects  may  this  opinion  be  main- 
tained ?  Are  these  stanzas  as  poetical  as  V-VIII,  LXVIII-LXX  ?  288. 
measured  tread.     How  does  this  suggest  the  vastness  of  the  army  ? 

XXXVn-XL.  Give  topic.  301.  Tifernum,  a  town  in  Umbria  on  the 
Tiber.  304.  Ilva's  mines.  The  iron  mines  of  '  Ilva  '  (Elba)  have  always 
been  celebrated.    See  note  on  1.  30.    306.  Vassal.    Picus,  the  Umbrian, 


HORATIUS  683 

evidently  held  his  land  as  tributary  to  Clusium.  309.  Nequinum,  an  Um- 
brian  town  on  the  river  Nar,  several  miles  above  its  junction  with  the  Tiber. 
It  is  situated  on  a  high,  steep  hill.  319.  Falerii,  an  important  city  of 
southern  Etruria.  321.  Urgo,  a  small  island  between  Etruria  and  Corsica. 
322.  rover,  pirate.  323.  Volsinium,  Volsinii,  a  city  of  Etruria,  just  north 
of  the  lake  of  the  same  name.  See  1.  49  and  note.  326.  Cosa,  a  town  in 
Etruria  on  the  coast.  328.  Albinia,  a  river  of  Etruria,  emptying  into  the 
sea  near  Cosa.  335.  Ostia  :  see  note  on  1.  134.  337.  Campania,  a  level 
province  of  central  Italy,  south  of  Latium.     hinds,  peasants. 

XLI-XLVII.  Give  topic.  340-343.  But  now  ...  rose.  Why?  344. 
Six  spears'  lengths.  About  what  distance  ?  355.  which  .  .  .  wield. 
The  use  of  '  he  '  instead  of  him  after  '  but  '  is  not  to  be  censured  as  a  solecism 
here.  '  But '  in  this  construction  should  be  considered  as  a  conjunction  used 
adverbially  in  the  sense  of  only,  and  not  a  preposition,  —  though  some 
authorities  regard  it  as  such.  See  Century  Diet.  360.  she-wolf's  litter. 
The  Romans  are  called  the  brood  of  the  wolf,  in  reference  to  the  fable  of  the 
suckling  of  Romulus  and  Remus  by  the  she-wolf.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p. 
372.  361.  Stand  at  bay.  Explain  the  figure.  384.  Mount  Alvemus,  a 
mountain  in  Campania,  near  the  source  of  the  Tiber.  384-389.  As  falls 
.  .  .  head.     Explain  the  figure  in  detail. 

XLVIII-Ln.  Give  topic.  412-416.  like  .  .  .  blood.  Explain  the  fig- 
ure in  detail.  421-424.  And  backward  .  .  .  reel.  Describe  the  picture. 
431.  Seitus  :  see  11.  199-200,  and  1.  3  and  note. 

LIII-LVII.  Give  topic.  450.  fall.  Why  not  falls?  461.  like  a  dam 
Explain  the  comparison.  467-475.  like  a  horse  ...  to  the  sea.  Explain 
the  figure  in  detail.     477.  constant,  unmoved. 

LVIII-L  XIV.  Give  topic.  488.  Palatinus,  one  of  the  seven  hills  of 
Rome,  on  which,  at  this  time,  were  the  dwellings  of  most  of  the  patricians. 
492.  father  Tiber  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  365.  503.  parted  lips.  What 
is  indicated  by  this  ?  508.  ranks  of  Tuscany,  i.e.  the  Etrurians.  519.  evil 
case,  adverse  circumstances.  526  ;  530.  Curse  on  him  ;  Heaven  help  him. 
Contrast  the  two  men  as  seen  here  and  in  11.  480,  482.  534-541.  And  now 
.  .  .  crowd.     Explain  efiFect  of  the  present  tenses  in  this  stanza. 

LXV-LXX.  Give  topic.  542.  corn-land  :  see  note  on  1.  261.  546. 
molten  image,  probably  of  bronze.  550.  Comitium,  a  place  of  public  as- 
sembly in  Rome,  adjoining  the  Forum.  561.  Volscian,  an  important  people 
of  Latium,  though  not  of  the  Latin  race.  They  were  constantly  at  war  with 
the  early  Romans.  562.  Juno,  the  goddess  of  marriage  and  childbirth.  See 
CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  22,  470.  572.  Algidus,  a  wooded  mountain  of  Latium, 
not  far  from  Rome.  574.  oldest  cask,  i.e.  the  best  wine.  577.  kid  .  .  . 
spit.  A  spit  is  a  pointed  stick  or  skewer  on  which  meat  (*  the  kid  ')  is 
roasted.  582.  goodman,  master  of  the  house.  587.  told.  Name  the 
dozen  or  more  temporal  clauses  modifying  *  told,'  and  describe  the  scenes  of 
Roman  home  life  which  these  clauses  indicate. 

What  characteristics  of  the  ballad  does  this  poem  possess  ?  ^  Compare  it, 


684  NOTES  TO  TENNYSON 

in  respect  of  verse  and  poetic  style,  with  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.    In  what 
does  its  charm  especially  lie  ?     (Introduction,  §§  6 ;  7 ;  24,  3,  5  ;  31,  3.) 

TENNYSON 

CENONE 

Paris,  son  of  Priam,  was  arbiter  in  the  awarding  of  a  golden  apple  in- 
scribed "  For  the  fairest,"  which  Eris,  or  Discord,  had  thrown  among  the 
guests  assembled  at  the  nuptials  of  Peleus  and  Thetis.  Juno,  Minerva,  and 
Venus  each  claimed  the  apple.  For  an  account  of  this  marriage  feast  and  the 
fateful  apple,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  277-278.  At  this  time  Paris  was  liv- 
ing on  Mt.  Ida  with  the  wife  of  his  youth,  the  beautiful  nymph  CEnone. 
The  reward  which  Venus  gave  him  for  his  judgment  in  her  favor  brought 
about  his  desertion  of  CEnone  —  a  situation  which  Tennyson  seized  upon  for 
this,  the  earliest  of  his  classical  idyls.  The  poem  is  written  in  blank  verse, 
a  metre  in  which  Tennyson  afterward  became  especially  proficient,  un- 
doubtedly excelling  all  poets  since  Milton.  The  poet  worked  out  the  plan 
for  CEnone  while  on  a  tour  of  the  Pyrenees  with  his  friend  Hallam,  and  much 
of  the  scenery  in  which  the  poem  abounds  is  doubtless  borrowed  from  those 
mountains.  (Enone  was  first  published  in  the  volume  of  1832,^  but  was 
somewhat  altered  in  later  editions.  Sixty  years  later,  the  month  of  Tenny- 
son's death  witnessed  the  publication  of  a  companion  poem.  The  Death  of 
CEnone  —  inferior,  however,  in  every  way  to  this  poem  of  his  early  genius. 

1-21.  I.  Ida.  A  thickly  wooded  mountain  range  south  of  Troy.  2. 
Ionian  hills.  Where  are  these  ?  3-5.  The  .  .  .  drawn.  Describe  the 
picture  ;  also  the  picture  of  the  whole  landscape.  10.  Gargarus,  a  high 
mountain  in  the  range.  13.  Troas.  The  district  of  northwestern  Asia 
Minor  between  Ida  and  '  Ilion's  columned  citadel,'  or  Troy.  Why  is  Troy 
called  '  the  crown  of  Troas  '  ?  15.  (Enone  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  310. 
forlorn,  in  its  radical  sense  of  deserted  or  abandoned. 

22-62.  22.  mother  Ida.  Why  mother  ?  many-fountained,  an  epithet 
modelled  after  the  Greek.  Ida  was  formerly  noted  for  its  springs  or  foun- 
tains. 39-40.  as  yonder  walls  Rose  slowly  :  see  the  story  of  the  building  of 
the  walls  of  Troy  through  the  music  of  Apollo's  lyre,  in  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp. 
no,  169.     51.  Simois,  a  river  of  Troas  north  of  Mt.  Ida. 

63-100.  65.  Hesperian  gold  :  see  Hesperides  and  the  garden  of  golden 
apples,  as  well  as  the  apple  of  Discord.  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  22,  219-220, 
277-278.  67.  full-flowing  river  of  speech.  Discuss  the  figure.  71.  "  For 
the  most  fair  "  :  see  introduction  to  these  notes.  72.  Oread.  For  the 
mountain  nymphs,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  46.  74.  married  brows.  What 
does  the  poet  seem  to  mean  by  the  epithet  '  married  '  ?  79.  Peleus,  father 
of  Achilles.     See  introduction  to    notes.     81.  Iris.     For    the  light-footed 

i.This  volume,  entitled  simply  Poems,  is  often  spoken  of  as  "the  volume  of 
1833,"  since  that  was  the  date  on  the  title-page.  The  book  made  its  appearance, 
however,  in  December,  1832. 


(ENONE  685 

goddess  of  the  rainbow,  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  41.  83-84.  Here,  Pallas, 
Aphrodite.  Juno  (Hera),  Minerva,  and  Venus.  94.  And  .  .  .  fire. 
Explain. 

101-131.  102.  crested  peacock,  a  bird  dear  to  Juno,  and  her  frequent 
companion.  105.  voice  of  her  :  see  Juno  in  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  22.  112. 
champaign  :  see  note  on  Horatius  (100).  126.  shepherd.  At  the  birth 
of  Paris  it  was  prophesied  that  he  would  bring  ruin  to  his  country.  He 
was  accordingly  left  to  perish  on  Mt.  Ida,  but  was  found  and  adopted  into 
the  family  of  a  shepherd  of  the  mountain.  130.  Above  the  thunder.  Dis- 
cuss this  very  expressive  phrase. 

132-167.  135.  Pallas  :  see  Minerva  in  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  23,  and  show 
how  her  speech  is  characteristic  of  her.  137.  O'erthwarted  .  .  .  spear. 
Minerva  is  frequently  represented  as  carrying  a  spear  transversely  in  her  left 
hand.  142.  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control.  Discriminate. 
144.  not  for  power.  Syntax  of  this  phrase  ?  151.  Sequel  of  guerdon. 
A  favorable  decision  brought  about  by  bribes  or  rewards  could  not  make  me 
other  than  I  am.  161-164.  until  .  .  .  freedom.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
difficult  passages  in  Tennyson.  In  trying  to  solve  it,  first  determine  the 
syntax  of  '  pure  law  '  ;  then  decide  what  the  poet  means  by  '  pure  law  '  and 
by  '  perfect  freedom  '  ;  finally  hunt  out  the  subject  of  '  commeasure  '  and 
make  sure  what  this  verb  means. 

168-202.  1 70-1 71.  Idalian  Aphrodite  .  .  .  Paphian  wells.  Aphro- 
dite, the  Greek  name  for  Venus,  signifies  the  foam-born,  from  the  myth  that 
she  arose  from  the  foam  of  the  sea.  Look  up  Venus  in  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp. 
31-34.  Idalia  and  Paphos,  cities  of  Cyprus,  were  dear  to  Venus.  183. 
wife,  Helen,  then  wife  of  Menelaus.  See  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  278-279. 
195.  pard  :  see  note  on  Ode  to  a  Nightingale  (32).  196.  Eyed  .  .  .  star. 
Discuss  the  simile. 

203-240.  204.  They  .  .  .  pines.  Is  this  action  related  to  the  story  of 
Troy  ?  To  whom  does  '  They  '  refer  ?  Discuss  the  fine  picture  of  this 
stanza,  particularly  noting  *  plumed  '  (205),  '  blue  gorge  '  (206),  '  moon-lit 
slits'  (214),  and  'trembling'  (215).  220.  The  Abominable,  Eris  or  Dis- 
cord, the  goddess  of  strife.  231-234.  O  .  .  .  cloud.  Note  how  the  effect 
of  these  apostrophes  is  heightened  by  the  parallel  construction. 

241-264.  242.  I  will  not  die  alone.  In  The  Death  of  (Enone  (see  in- 
troduction to  notes),  (Enone  is  made  to  perish  upon  the  funeral  pile  of  her 
faithless  husband.  245.  Dead  sounds  at  night.  To  what  does  this  refer  ? 
Explain  the  simile  in  the  following  Hne.  247.  My  far-off  doubtful  purpose. 
Explain.  254.  their  .  .  .  laughter.  Whose  ?  259.  the  wild  Cassandra  : 
see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  313.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Priam  and  had  the 
gift  of  prophecy,  but  was  fated  to  have  all  her  predictions  unbelieved.  Al- 
though in  the  myth,  (Enone  had  a  like  prophetic  power,  Tennyson  wisely 
omits  this  characteristic  as  tending  to  detract  from  the  beauty  and  simplicity 
of  her  nature.  261.  armed  men.  Cassandra  had  prophesied  the  siege  and 
downfall  of  Troy, 


686  NOTES  TO  TENNYSON 

Discuss  the  form  of  literature  to  which  this  poem  belongs.  Compare  the 
blank  verse,  according  to  the  principles  mentioned  in  the  Introduction, 
§§  19;  20,  2,  with  that  of  2  Paradise  Lost.     Also  see  §  30,  4. 

THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT 

Long  before  Tennyson  had  formulated  his  plans  for  the  Idylls  of  the  King, 
he  had  been  attracted  toward  the  legends  of  Arthur  and  his  court.  The 
first  important  fruitage  of  this  interest  was  seen  in  the  volume  of  1832,  in  the 
mystical  lyric,  The  Lady  of  Shalott.  In  this  poem  Tennyson  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  old  romance,  and  expressed  it  with  a  poetic  grace  and  perfection 
of  form  which  he  rarely,  if  ever,  afterward  surpassed.  Though  an  ethical 
interpretation  of  the  symbolism  has  often  been  suggested,  it  is  perhaps  best 
not  to  imperil  the  simple  ballad  interest  by  attempting  any  detailed  analysis 
of  the  possible  mystical  (or  spiritual)  meaning.  It  should  be  noted  that 
'  Shalott  '  is  only  another  form  of  '  Astolat,'  that  its  lady  is  the  prototype  of 
Elaine,  and  that  this  httle  lyric  wa3  afterward  elaborated  into  what  has  been 
styled  "  the  most  idyllic  and  most  touching  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King'' 

Part  I.  5.  Camelot,  the  mystical  city  where  King  Arthur  held  his  court. 
See  [Note  II],  p.  712,  Persons  and  Places  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King.  9.  The 
island  of  Shalott.  But  in  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  Astolat  is  not  an  island.  19. 
margin,  of  the  river.  30.  cheerly,  an  archaic  form  of  cheerily.  The  archaic 
and  purely  artistic  words  of  the  poem  make  it  more  poetical,  if  less  human 
and  touching,  than  the  Elaine. 

Part  II.  38.  A  magic  web.  Part  11,  with  its  magic  web  and  mirror, 
may  be  intended  to  represent  the  world  of  images  and  shadows,  the  dream- 
life  of  childhood,  beyond  which  for  some  mortals  it  is  fatal  to  go.  Part  III, 
then,  would  be  the  awakening  of  passion,  the  escape  into  a  world  of  realities 
—  an  escape  that  for  the  lady  can  mean  only  death.  40.  stay,  i.e.  pause  in 
her  weaving.  52.  churls,  in  its  radical  sense  of  rustics.  60.  mirror  blue. 
Why  blue  ? 

Part  III.  77.  Sir  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  Arthur's  knights.  Note  that  in 
this  poem,  even  more  than  in  the  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  the  knight  is  guiltless 
of  the  maiden's  death.  84.  Galaxy,  the  Milky  Way  with  its  innumerable 
and  indistinguishable  stars.  Look  up  derivation  of  word.  87.  baldric  : 
see  note  on  Prologue  (116).  96-99.  As  .  .  .  Shalott.  Analyze  the  figure. 
What  is  the  purpose  of  so  stressing  the  brightness  of  Lancelot  and  his  equip- 
ment ?  III.  water-lily  :  see  1.  7.  114-115.  Out  .  .  .  side.  Significance 
of  this  ?     u6.  The  curse  :  see  1.  40. 

Part  IV.  In  the  Lancelot  and  Elaine  the  lady  is  not  set  afloat  upon  the 
river  until  after  her  death.  121.  low  sky  raining.  Observe  harmony  be- 
tween scene  and  action.     142.  willowy  hills.     Discuss  the  epithet. 

ULYSSES 

The  Odyssey  (see  CI.  M.,  pp.  277-280, 318-345)  brought  the  adventures  of 
Ulysses,  after  the  Trojan  War,  down  to  his  return  to  Ithaca,  and  his  retire- 


IN  MEMORIAM  687 

ment  in  undisturbed  possession  of  wife  and  kingdom.  More  than  two  thou- 
sand years  later  Dante  in  his  Inferno  took  up  the  myth,  and  described  how 
the  ancient  hero,  growing  tired  of  repose,  collected  his  followers  together, 
incited  them  to  action  by  a  stirring  speech,  constructed  a  fleet,  and  set  sail 
for  the  "  Happy  Isles  "  of  the  western  ocean.  Tennyson  here  presents  the 
speech  by  which  Ulysses  may  be  supposed  to  have  aroused  his  men.  This 
poem  was  first  pubhshed  in  the  volume  of  1842. 

1-32.  2.  barren  crags,  Ithaca,  the  kingdom  of  Ulysses,  a  rocky  island 
off  the  west  coast  of  Greece.  3.  aged  wife.  For  Penelope,  see  CI.  D.  or 
CI.  M.,  pp.  279,  338-345.  10.  Hyades.  This  constellation  under  certain 
conditions  indicates  stormy  weather.  For  origin  of  the  constellation,  see 
CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  p.  152.  17.  ringing  plains.  Why  '  ringing  '  ?  1^21. 
Yet  .  .  .  move.  Explain  the  figure.  26.  Little  remains,  i.e.  of  his  own 
Ufe  (1.  25).     Perhaps  not  more  than  three  years  (1.  29)  are  still  left  to  him. 

33-70.  33.  Telemachus  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  279,  339-343.  35. 
discerning  to  fulfil,  understanding  how  to  carry  out.  40.  decent,  in  its 
radical  meaning,  from  Lat.  decens.  53.  strove,  in  the  Trojan  War.  See 
CI.  M.,  pp.  284-285,  301,  etc.  60-61.  baths  Of  all  the  western  stars.  The 
stars  were  supposed  to  set  in  the  western  ocean.  See  CI.  if.,  p.  43.  62. 
gulfs  .  .  .  down.  This  actually  happened,  according  to  Dante,  for  Ulysses 
never  returned.  63.  Happy  Isles,  or  Isles  of  the  Blessed  :  see  CI.  D.  or 
CI.  M.,  pp.  51-52.  64.  Achilles  :  see  CI.  D.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  269-274,  277- 
309,  especially  pp.  307-308. 

BREAK,   BREAK,   BREAK 

Composed,  said  Tennyson,  "  in  a  Lincolnshire  lane  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning  between  blossoming  hedges."     Printed  in  1842. 

SONGS   FROM  THE  PRINCESS 

These  and  three  other  songs  were  inserted  in  the  third  edition  (1850)  of 
Tennyson's  poem  on  woman's  rights,  TJte  Princess.  They  were  not  an 
afterthought.  "  Before  the  first  edition  came  out  I  deliberated  with  myself 
whether  I  should  put  songs  in  between  the  separate  divisions  of  the  poem," 
(Tennyson).  But  the  lyrics  have  a  value  quite  independent  of  their  setting. 
Like  Break,  Break,  Break  and  Crossing  the  Bar  they  have  become  the 
language  of  the  heart  for  Great  Britain  and  America. 

PROEM  TO  IN  MEMORIAM 

In  Memoriam,  Tennyson's  greatest  poem,  is  a  tribute  of  love,  lament, 
and  meditation  to  his  friend  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  who  died  in  1833.  The 
poem  is  a  series  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-one  short  lyrics  which  were  written 
at  different  times,  from  the  death  of  Hallam  to  their  publication  in  1850. 
The  meditative  character  of  this  'elegy  consists  of  a  profound  questioning 
of  the  nature  and  significance  of  hfe,  giving  way  at  last  to  a  sublime  faith 


688  NOTES  TO   TENNYSON 

in  the  providence  of  God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  —  that  faith  which 
ministers  the  dearest  hope  and  greatest  comfort  to  the  heart  of  one  bereaved. 
In  this  proem,  or  apology,  which  is  dated  1849,  Tennyson  gives  utterance 
to  his  belief  that  Love  is  immortal,  that  God  is  good  and  merciful  and  that 
He  in  His  wisdom,  which  we  cannot  fathom,  has  made  the  world  as  it  is, 
including  death  (1-8);  that  divine  providence  {cf.  note  on  Paradise  Lost 
(25))  will  not  let  the  soul  perish  (9-12);  that  somehow  or  other  we  have  the 
power  to  will  to  do  right  (13-16);  that  our  systems  of  thought  and  social 
organization  are  but  imperfect  reflections  of  the  great  Spirit  (17-20);  and 
that  human  knowledge,  necessarily  limited,  should  increase,  but  with  ever 
greater  reverence  for  the  mysteries  beyond  its  ken  —  so  that  knowledge  of 
the  smaller  reality  and  faith  in  the  greater  reality  may  be  at  one  with  each 
other  (21-28).  In  conclusion  the  poet  prays  for  greater  faith  and  for  divine 
mercy  toward  that  which  men  call  sin  and  merit  (33-36).  A  clear  message, 
that,  for  us  of  to-day  with  our  overweening  pride  in  scientific  and  material 
achievements  ! 

The  stanza  used  in  this  poem,  which  has  come  to  be  known  as  the  In 
Memoriam  stanza,  was  used  by  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury  (d.  1648)  and 
Ben  Jonson.  .Tennyson  employed  it  as  early  as  1833  )  he  thought  he  had 
invented  it.  As  a  medium  for  dignified  reflection  and  noble  passion,  as  used 
by  Tennyson,  it  has  few  equals,  but  poets  of  less  power  find  it  monotonous  and 
abrupt.  Says  one  critic  :  "  No  one  stanza  was  ever  employed  with  such 
varying  effect.  And  this  is  the  more  remarkable  because  its  arrangement  of 
rising  and  falling  rhymes  tends  to  close  the  quatrain  and  make  its  music 
isolated  and  monotonous,  for  the  recurring  central  rhymes  hold  the  rhythm 
in  suspense  till  it  falls  again  as  the  fourth  rhyme  recalls  the  first." 

FLOWER  IN   THE  CRANNIED   WALL 

First  published  m  1870.  This  poem  of  one  stanza,  irregular  in  form  as  it 
is  and  laden  with  an  awkward  phraseology  in  the  last  line,  is  nevertheless 
highly  successful,  chiefly,  perhaps,  because  it  puts  in  intimate  figure,  con- 
densed form,  and  facile  rhythm  one  of  the  commonest  and  best  beloved 
ideas  of  popular  philosophy,  —  that  the  secret  of  existence  lies  in  all  things 
alike.     How  do  you  interpret '  all  in  all '  in  1.  5  ? 

CROSSING   THE  BAR 

This  little  poem  was  written  over  sixty  years  after  the  publication  of  Ten- 
nyson's first  book  of  verse.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a  more  fitting  climax 
to  this  long  period  of  endeavor,  or  a  more  triumphant  expression  of  the  aged 
poet's  simple  faith,  than  is  contained  in  these  sixteen  short  lines.  It  has  been 
called  a  poem  above  criticism,  as  beautiful  an  utterance  as  any  in  all  the  range 
of  EngUsh  verse  —  a  poem  in  which,  says  Sir  Alfred  Lyall,  "  The  noiseless  in- 
draw  of  the  ebb-tide  from  the  land  back  into  the  ocean  is  a  magnificent  image 
of  the  soul's  quiet  parting  from  life  on  earth  and  its  absorption  into  the  vast- 
of  infinity." 


INCIDENT  OF   THE  FRENCH  CAMP  689 

Hallam  Tennyson,  in  the  memoirs  of  his  father's  life,  has  given  the  follow- 
ing account  of  the  poem's  composition  :  "  Crossing  the  Bar  was  written  in 
my  father's  eighty-first  year,  on  a  day  in  October  when  we  came  from  Aid- 
worth  to  Farringford.  Before  reaching  Farringford  he  had  the  Moaning  of 
the  Bar  in  his  mind,  and  after  dinner  he  showed  me  this  poem  written  out. 
I  said, '  That  is  the  crown  of  your  life's  work.'  He  answered,  *  It  came  in  a 
moment.'  He  explained  the  *  Pilot '  as  that  Divine  and  Unseen  who  is 
always  guiding  us.  A  few  days  before  my  father's  death  he  said  to  me, 
*  Mind  you  put  Crossing  the  Bar  at  the  end  of  my  poems.'  " 

BROWNING 

SONGS   FROM   PIPPA   PASSES 

Browning's  charming  drama,  Pippa  Passes,  from  which  these  two 
stanzas  are  taken,  was  published  in  1841.  The  drama  is  based  upon  the 
conception  of  "  someone  walking  alone  through  life  ;  one  apparently  too 
obscure  to  leave  a  trace  of  his  or  her  passage,  yet  exercising  a  lasting,  though 
unconscious,  influence  at  every  step  of  it."  It  is  thus  that  Pippa,  a  little 
ragged  girl  who  works  in  the  silk-mills  of  Asolo,  in  Northern  Italy,  passes  by, 
singing  her  songs,  without  realizing  that  they  have  a  determining  influence 
in  the  lives  of  several  men  and  women  who  have  heard  them.  On  her  one 
holiday  in  the  year  she  rises  with  our  first  song  op.  her  lips,  —  a  song  that 
gives  the  keynote  to  the  play,  for  is  not  Pippa's  singing  a  service  that  ranks 
high  with  God  ?  That  she  is  unconscious  of  the  service,  —  well,  that  is 
God's  care — 'his  puppets,  best  and  worst,  Are  we.'  There  is  another 
stanza  to  this  song,  but  we  have  not  quoted  it  because  it  has  less  of  lyrical 
swing  and  spontaneity.  By  the  stanza  we  have  selected  the  song  is 
known. 

Pippa  passes  through  the  village,  artlessly  singing  her  way  in  and  out 
of  the  lives  of  the  leading  characters  of  the  play.  She  rests  on  a  step  and 
sings  the  second  song,  closing  with  those  words  that  have  become  a  part  of 
the  world's  gospel  :  '  God's  in  his  heaven  —  All's  right  with  the  world  !  ' 
A  man  and  a  woman  overhear  her,  and  they  suddenly  turn  from  their  sin  to 
the  realization  of  its  tragic  significance.  "  The  little  peasant's  voice  has 
righted  all  again." — 'Spring  '  (7)  of  course  means  spring-time. 

Professor  Saintsbury,  who  is  far  from  being  a  Browning  enthusiast,  says 
in  his  History  of  Nineteenth  Century  Literature :  "It  is  as  a  lyric  poet 
that  Browning  ranks  highest  ;  and  in  this  highest  class  it  is  impossible  to 
refuse  him  all  but  the  highest  rank,  in  some  few  cases  the  very  highest." 

INCIDENT  OF   THE   FRENCH   CAMP 

Published  in  1842.  The  story,  said  to  be  true,  though  the  actual  hero 
was  a  man,  is  supposed  to  be  told  by  a  witness  of  the  incident.  Ratisbon 
(or  Regensburg)  is  in  Bavaria,  on  the  south  bank  of  the  Danube.    In  April^ 

2y 


690  NOTES  TO  BROWNING 

1809,  it  suffered  severely  in  the  fighting  between  Napoleon  and  the  Aus- 
trians.  7-8.  Notice  the  fanciful  explanation  of  Napoleon's  characteristic 
pose,  prone,  bending  forward,  i.e.  the  head  bent  forward.  See  the  pic- 
tures of  Napoleon.  Oppressive,  heavy,  weighted  down.  11-12.  let  .  .  . 
Waver,  if  he  waver  (subjunctive  mood).  Lannes.  One  of  Napoleon's 
generals.  17-24.  Note  Browning's  characteristic  style,  —  abrupt  and 
disjunctive.  29.  flag-bird.  Referring  to  the  eagle  on  Napoleon's  flag. 
vans,  wings,  —  a  derived  meaning.  See  Diet,  and  cf.  fan.  36.  bruised 
eaglet.  Note  the  appropriateness  of  the  figure.  —  Browning's  admiration 
of  the  heroic  finds  ready  expression  in  this  dramatic  scene.  For  a  fuller 
exposition  of  the  value  of  the  heroic,  see  the  story  of  Hercules  in  Browning's 
Balanstion's  Adventure.  For  this  poem  and  the  next,  see  Introduction, 
§  30,  7. 

THE   PATRIOT  :   AN   OLD  STORY 

"  An  Old  Story  "  in  the  sense  that  this  sort  of  thing  happens  over  and 
over  again,  —  an  aspect  of  the  irony  of  fortune.  Note  the  comfort  the 
prisoner-patriot  finds  in  his  misfortunes  :  Had  the  world  paid  him  better 
God  might  have  had  more  to  require  of  him  (28-30). 

HOME-THOUGHTS,    FROM   ABROAD 

Both  this  and  Home-  Thoughts,  from  the  Sea,  which  follows,  first  appeared 
in  1845  i^  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics.  Browning  has  shown  no  finer 
appreciation  of  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  Enghsh  springtide  than  in  this 
little  nature  lyric.  The  words  are  uttered  in  a  foreign  land  by  one  whose 
heart  is  yearning  for  the  delights  of  the  English  spring. 

4.  unaware,  unexpectedly.  11-14.  Hark  .  .  .  thrush.  The  picture 
seems  to  be  that  of  the  thrush  perching  on  the  twig  of  the  pear  tree,  and 
bending  it  down  so  violently  that  a  shower  of  petals  and  dewdrops  is  scattered 
on  the  grass  beneath.  This  description  of  the  thrush  who  wants  to  prove  his 
abihty  to  repeat  his  song  is  as  famous  as  it  is  charming. 

HOME-THOUGHTS,    FROM   THE   SEA 

In  this  lyric  we  see  a  patriotic  Englishman  stirred  by  scenes  which  bring 
before  his  mind  the  glory  of  his  country.  Here  is  Gibraltar  which,  at  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  England  successfully  defended  against  the 
combined  assaults  of  France  and  Spain.  Here  is  Cape  Trafalgar,  where,  in 
1805,  the  brave  Nelson  defeated  the  French  fleet  (see  note  on  Byron,  stanzas 
from  Childe  Harold,  The  Ocean,  1.  36;  also  note  on  Noyes,  p.  728). 

The  metrical  form  of  these  lines  is  trochaic  octameter  catalectic,  like  that 
in  Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall.  1-4.  Nobly  .  .  .  gray.  Describe  the  scene. 
Professor  Corson  points  out  that  it  forms  "  a  characteristic  Turner  picture." 
5-6.  say,  Whoso  turns.  Let  him,  whosoever  turns  as  I,  etc.,  —  say.  7- 
Jove's  planet.    To  what  does  the  poet  refer  ? 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS  69X 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

My  Last  Duchess,  published  in  1842  in  Dramatic  Lyrics,  is  one  of  the 
earliest  specimens  of  a  kind  of  poetry  in  which  Browning  was  destined  to 
excel.  This,  "  the  poet's  favorite  art  form,"  is  known  as  the  "  dramatic 
monologue."  In  it  some  speaker  appears,  talking  not  to  himself  as  in  a 
soliloquy,  but  to  a  silent  second  person  whose  presence  is  to  be  inferred  from 
the  words  of  him  who  speaks.  The  monotony  of  a  soliloquy  is  avoided  by 
this  means,  since  the  interest  consists  not  only  in  revealing  the  character  of 
the  speaker,  but  also  in  suggesting  the  effect  which  his  arguments  or  appeals 
make  upon  the  imaginary  hearer.  Sometimes  the  speaker  directs  a  question 
to  his  auditor  ;  sometimes  he  answers  a  look  or  gesture  ;  at  all  times  he 
speaks  in  his  own  character  —  and  hence  such  a  poem  does  not  necessarily 
give  any  hint  of  the  real  thoughts  or  feelings  of  the  poet  himself.  The 
dramatic  monologue  constituted  a  large  part  of  Browning's  poetry.  It  is 
generally  written  in  blank  verse,  though  in  the  present  instance  it  rhymes  in 
couplets. 

Nowhere  has  Browning  made  more  artistic  or  effective  use  of  this  method 
than  in  My  Last  Duchess.  The  speaker  is  the  Duke  of  Ferrara,  an  arrogant 
and  cold-hearted  Italian,  whose  only  interests  are  his  pride  of  aristocratic 
lineage  and  his  satisfaction  in  the  treasures  of  art  which  he  has  collected. 
One  of  the  paintings  in  which  he  takes  most  pleasure  —  because  of  its 
aesthetic  qualities,  not  from  any  other  emotion  than  those  aroused  by  the 
contemplation  and  possession  of  rare  and  beautiful  art  —  is  a  portrait  of  his 
young  vnie  who  has  recently  died.  The  envoy  of  a  certain  wealthy  count 
has  come  to  him  to  conclude  arrangements  for  a  new  marriage  between  the 
wiciowed  duke  and  the  count's  daughter.  This  Httle  matter  of  business 
being  finished  to  the  duke's  satisfaction,  the  latter  good-naturedly  and  com- 
placently entertains  his  guest  by  showing  him  through  his  picture  gallery 
and  explaining  as  they  proceed.  (On  the  dramatic  monologue,  see  In- 
troduction, §  31,  9  ;  also  §  30,  4,  7.) 

1-21.  3.  Fra  Pandolf,  a  name  of  the  poet's  invention.  *  Fra  '  signifies 
brother,  denoting  that  this  imaginary  artist  was  a  monk.  5-6.  I  said 
.  .  .  design.  From  the  '  depth  and  passion  '  of  the  portrait  one  might 
think  that  the  artist  was  enamored  of  the  Duchess.  So  the  duke  is 
accustomed  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  the  painter  was  *  Fra  Pandolf,'  whose 
monastic  vows  should  preclude  any  such  possibility.  9-10.  since  ...  I. 
"  It's  too  precious  a  work  of  art  to  be  intrusted  to  anybody  else  "  (Corson). 

*  But '  here  is  used  adverbially  in  the  sense  of  only;  hence  the  nominative 

*  I.'    See  note  on  Horatius  (355). 

21-34.  Characterize  the  Duchess  as  portrayed  ui  these  lines.  25. 
favor,  some  gift,  such  as  a  jewelled  breast-pin.  33.  nine-hundred-years-old 
name  :  see  introduction  to  notes. 

34-47.  Characterize  the  duke  from  his  unconscious  portrayal  of  himself. 
40.  lessoned,  taught  or  instructed.    45.  I  gave  commands.    It  was  doubt- 


692  NOTES  TO  BROWNING 

less  the  tone  and  spirit  of  the  commands,  rather  than  the  words,  that  crushed 
the  young  wife's  spirit.  46.  Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.  On  these 
words  Berdoe  remarks,  "  The  concentrated  tragedy  of  this  line  is  a  good 
example  of  the  poet's  power  of  compressing  a  whole  life's  story  into  two  or 
three  words." 

47-56.  Show  the  artistic  effect  of  thus  abruptly  dismissing  the  subject, 
and  turning  to  the  business  at  hand.  54-55.  Notice  .  .  .  sea-horse. 
Several  commentators  have  suggested  that  in  these  lines  there  is  a  "  reference 
to  the  way  he  has  tamed  and  killed  his  lady,"  Would  this  interpretation 
be  artistic  ?  For  what  evident  reason  were  the  lines  introduced  ?  56. 
Glaus  of  Innsbruck,  another  imaginary  artist. 

ANDREA  DEL   SARTO 

This  poem,  published  in  Men  and  Women  (1855),  is  one  of  Browning's 
best  and  most  characteristic  dramatic  monologues.  Andrea  del  Sarto  (An- 
drew, son  of  the  tailor),  as  he  was  nicknamed  by  his  contemporaries,  was  bom 
in  Florence  in  1487.  After  an  apprenticeship  as  goldsmith  and  wood-carver 
he  studied  art,  and,  by  the  time  of  his  early  manhood,  became  known  as 
"  the  faultless  painter."  The  spiritual  element  is  supposed  to  be  lacking  in 
his  work,  but  in  technique  and  accuracy  of  drawing  he  had  hardly  an  equal. 
When  twenty-five  years  of  age  he  married  a  certain  Lucrezia,  a  woman  of 
wonderful  physical  beauty,  but  dishonest,  vain,  extravagant,  and  with  a  soul 
utterly  incapable  of  appreciating  her  husband's  art. 

In  15 18  the  French  king,  Francis  I,  who  had  seen  some  of  Andrea's 
work,  invited  him  to  Paris  to  paint  in  the  French  court.  Here  the  artist 
spent  several  of  the  best  months  of  his  life,  "  painted  proudly  and  prospered 
every  way."  But  before  long  his  wife  wrote  to  him  from  Florence,  urging 
him  to  come  home.  The  king  agreed  to  this,  on  condition  that  he  soon 
return ;  and,  moreover,  entrusted  him  with  a  large  sum  of  money,  with  which 
he  was  to  purchase  in  Italy  works  of  art  to  be  brought  back  to  France 
Lucrezia,  finding  out  that  he  had  this  money,  persuaded  him  to  appropriate 
it  to  building  a  house  for  himself  in  Florence.  Even  after  he  had  done  this 
he  was  inclined  to  go  back  to  France  to  take  his  punishment  ;  but  the  en- 
treaties of  his  wife,  and  his  infatuation  for  her,  decided  otherwise.  Andrea  is 
conceived  by  Browning  as  never  rising  beyond  the  sphere  of  technical  cor- 
rectness, —  as  "  faultless  "  but  uninspired  to  the  last.  Still  there  are  pabat- 
ings  of  his  that  might  justify  one  in  disagreemg  with  this  verdict.  He  died 
of  the  plague  in  1 531,  at  the  early  age  of  forty-three,  his  wife  surviving  him 
for  over  forty  years. 

Just  how  far  Andrea's  genius  was  blighted  by  this  unhappy  marriage  is  an 
open  question,  and  has  formed  a  frequent  theme  for  discussion.  Some  critics 
insist  that  Browning's  poem  lays  the  shortcomings  of  Andrea  rather  at  his 
own  door  than  at  that  of  Lucrezia.  One  commentator,  after  a  study  of  the 
poem,  declares,  "  No  woman  ruined  his  soul  ;  he  had  no  soul  to  ruin." 
Suffice  it  to  say  that,  although  his  wife  was  notoriously  false  to  him,  he  toiled 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO  693 

for  her,  loved  her,  and  clung  to  her  to  the  end.  She  was  the  model  for  many 
of  his  pictures,  and  it  was  from  one  of  these  pictures  that  Browning  got  the 
idea  for  his  poem.  Mr.  John  Kenyon,  a  friend  of  the  Brownings,  had  asked 
the  poet  to  procure  for  him  a  copy  of  the  portrait  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  and 
Lucrezia,  painted  by  Andrea,  and  now  in  a  gallery  of  Florence.  No  copy 
could  be  found,  however  ;  so  Browning  wrote  and  sent  as  a  substitute  this 
poem,  which  was  intended  to  represent  what  he  himself  had  got  out  of  (or 
read  into)  this  portrait  of  husband  and  wife.  The  scene  is  an  open  window 
of  the  house  in  Florence  which  had  been  built  with  the  stolen  gold.  The 
time  is  evening.  The  painter  is  speaking  in  answer  to  his  wife's  demand  for 
money  for  her  lover  (or  '  cousin,'  as  she  styles  him). 

1-32.  5-7.  I'll  .  .  .  price.  What  do  these  lines  suggest  as  to  Andrea's 
present  ideals  of  his  art  ?  Show  how  the  opening  lines  strike  the  keynote  of 
the  whole  poem.  15.  Fiesole  (pronounced  Fe-a'z6-le),  a  little  city  about 
three  miles  from  Florence,  built  upon  a  hill  above  the  river  Arno.  16.  use, 
are  accustomed  to  do.  23-25.  you  .  .  .  model  :  see  introduction  to  these 
notes. 

33-53.  35.  A  common  grayness.  This  tone  was  characteristic  in  much 
of  Andrea's  painting.  41-42.  chapel  top  .  .  .  convent- wall,  evidently  just 
opposite  the  artist's  home.  49-53-  Love  ...  lie.  One  editor  says,  "  This 
is  not  piety,  but  Andrea's  characteristic  way  of  evading  responsibility."  Do 
you  agree  ? 

54-103.  54.  You  don't  understand  :  see  introduction  to  notes.  57. 
cartoon  :  see  Diet,  for  definition  of  this  word  in  this,  its  original  sense. 
60-67.  I  can  do  ...  all  of  it  :  see  introduction  to  notes.  76-82.  Yet  do 
much  less  .  .  .  hand  of  mine  :  see  introduction  to  notes.  Professor  Dowden 
quotes  as  follows  from  Vasari,  "  Had  this  master  possessed  a  somewhat  bolder 
and  more  elevated  mind,  had  he  been  as  much  distinguished  for  higher  quali- 
fications as  he  was  for  genius,  he  would,  beyond  all  doubt,  have  been  without 
an  equal."  But  despite  the  matchless  technique  of  Del  Sarto,  his  was,  after 
all,  only  a  '  low-pulsed  craftsman's  hand.'  In  a  word,  he  is  represented 
as  lacking  soul.  83-87.  Their  works  ...  sit  here.  Discuss  this  passage. 
90-96.  I  .  .  .  care.  Morello  is  one  of  the  peaks  of  the  Apennines,  north  of 
Florence.  Men  may  criticise  its  hue  or  outline  if  they  wish,  but  the  moun- 
tain is  indifferent  to  it —  is  above  criticism.  How  does  Andrea  apply  this 
illustration  to  his  own  case  ? 

104-144.  105.  The  Urbinate.  Raphael,  bom  at  Urbino,  1483,  was  one 
of  the  greatest  of  Italian  painters.  He  died  in  1520.  Accordingly,  the  date 
of  this  monologue  is  fixed  at  1525,  six  years  before  Andrea's  death.  106. 
George  Vasari.  Giorgio  Vasari  (15 12-15 74),  who  was  once  a  pupil  of  Andrea, 
in  his  Lims  of  the  Artists,  is  the  one  great  original  authority  for  the  biogra- 
phies of  Italian  painters.  108.  with  kings  and  popes  to  see.  Much  of 
Raphael's  best  work  was  the  frescoing  of  the  rooms  and  corridors  of  the  Vati- 
can. His  art  was  distinguished  by  wonderful  dignity,  reserve,  and  nobility 
of  soul,  which  Andrea  recognizes  as  far  outweighing  his  own  technical  skill. 


694  NOTES  TO  BROWNING 

no.  for  it  gives  way.  He  attains  heaven  by  reaching  '  above  '  and '  through' 
his  art.  120.  Nay,  Love,  evidently  in  reply  to  a  gesture  on  the  part  of  Lu- 
crezia.  130.  Agnolo.  Michael  Angelo  (or,  more  correctly,  Agnolo)  was  born 
in  1475,  and  died,  when  nearly  ninety  years  of  age,  in  1564.  He  was  both 
sculptor  and  painter,  and  excelled  equally  in  technical  skill  and  grandeur  of 
conception.     His  greatest  work  was  the  decoration  of  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

145  -176.  146.  Paris  lords,  who  knew  of  the  embezzlement  of  the  money 
entrusted  to  bim  by  King  Francis.  See  introduction  to  notes.  150.  Fon- 
tainebleau,  a  town  some  forty  miles  from  Paris,  containing  a  famous  palace 
of  the  French  kings.  166.  And  had  you  not  grown  restless-:  see  introduc-: 
tion  to  notes.  173.  there,  in  your  heart.  These  lines  are  regarded  by  some 
as  an  example  of  Browning's  obscurity.  Are  they  susceptible  of  more  than 
one  interpretation  ?  Browning  afterward  changed  the  words  '  have  ended  ' 
to  '  reach  and  stay.'  Discuss  whether  this  alteration  throws  light  upon  the 
meaning. 

177-210.  177-179-  Rafael  .  .  .  wife,  the  words  with  which  men  will 
*  excuse  '  him.  Raphael's  Madonna  is  more  spiritual,  —  better  fitted  for  re- 
ligious devotions,  —  since  Andrea's  was  modelled  on  an  earthly  love.  178. 
The  Roman's.  The  latter  years  of  Raphael's  life  were  spent  in  Rome.  186- 
187  When  .  .  .  see  :  see  note  on  1.  108.  199.  What  he  ?  In  Andrea's 
childlike  eagerness  to  recount  to  his  wife  the  story  of  this  splendid  compli- 
ment, he  has  failed  to  notice  that  she  is  pa3dng  no  attention.  201.  chance, 
so  lost.  To  what  does  he  refer  ?  202.  Is,  the  subject  is '  all  I  care  for  '  (198) . 
207.  I  mean  .  .  .  more.  Point  out  the  pathos  of  this  line.  210.  cue-owls, 
owls  cormnon  to  Mediterranean  regions.  Their  name  is  derived  from  their 
peculiar  cry.    The  English  name  for  them  is  scops-owl. 

211-243.  212-213.  house  We  built  :  see  introduction  to  notes.  218. 
gold  I  did  cement  them  with.  Explain  the  figure.  219.  Must  you  go  ? 
The  lover  for  whom  Lucrezia  has  been  seeking  money  here  summons  her  by 
whistling.  See  1.  267.  241.  scudi.  A  scudo  (pi.  scudi)  is  an  Italian  silver 
coin,  worth  about  a  dollar. 

244-267.  250.  My  .  .  .  want.  Vasari  says  that  Andrea  abandoned 
his  "  poor  father  and  mother  "  when  he  became  infatuated  with  Lucrezia. 
255-256.  Some  .  .  .  try.  Let  some  good  son  try  to  paint.  259.  here,  on 
earth.  261-262.  Four  .  .  .  reed  :  see  Revelation  xx\.  15-17.  263.  Leonard, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  (145  2-1 5 19),  who  shares  with  Raphael  and  Michael 
Angelo  the  distinction  of  being  the  greatest  among  Italian  artists.  With  his 
Last  Supper  painting  in  Italy  probably  reached  its  zenith. 

RABBI   BEN   EZRA 

Ben  Ezra,  as  Browning  has  called  him,  —  though  more  properly  Ibn  Ezra 
or  Abenezra,  —  was  a  learned  Jewish  rabbi  who  was  bom  at  Toledo  in  Spain, 
about  1092,  and  died,  probably  at  Rome,  about  1 167.  He  was  a  poet  of  some 
ability,  an  eminent  scholar,  and  a  distinguished  thinker.  He  left  Spain  in 
1 1 40  on  account  of  an  outbreak  against  the  Jews,  and,  though  a  great 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA  695 

traveller,  spent  much  of  the  rest  of  his  life  in  Italy.  As  far  as  can  be  judged 
from  what  we  know  of  Ben  Ezra,  the  beliefs  assigned  to  him  in  this  poem  were 
very  like  the  creed  of  his  actual  teaching.  He  is  said  to  have  had  faith  in  a 
future  life  ;  to  have  insisted  upon  freedom  of  thought  ;  to  have  taught  that 
the  higher,  or  spiritual,  soul  of  man  is  in  eternal  conflict  with  the  lower,  or 
animal,  soul,  —  the  passions  and  desires  ;  and  to  have  held  that  old  age, 
when  wisdom  has  triumphed  over  passion,  is  the  most  important  period  of 
man's  activity.  Indeed,  it  has  been  said  that  m  the  case  of  Ben  Ezra  him- 
self all  of  his  writing  was  done  after  he  had  reached  his  fiftieth  year. 

This  poem  was  first  published  in  the  Dramatis  Persona  of  1864.  Its 
poetic  style  differs  widely  from  that  of  the  blank  verse  ordinarily  used  by 
Browning,  and  may  profitably  be  studied  with  a  view  to  the  harmonies  of 
sound  and  sense.  Though  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  is  unquestionably  difficult,  it  is 
at  the  same  time  of  great  nobility  of  thought  and  marked  originahty.  It 
shows  Browning  as  a  profound  and  yet  poetic  reasoner.  Through  the  rabbi 
the  poet  is  giving  us  much  of  his  own  philosophy  of  life  ;  and  every  careful 
reader  will  find  here  a  lesson  that  should  hearten,  comfort,  and  sustain. 

1-30.  I.  Grow  .  .  .  me.  Ben  Ezra  in  his  old  age  is  supposed  to  be  ad- 
dressing a  youth.  Survey  life  with  me,  he  says,  and  you  will  see  that  it  is  best 
and  fuUest  in  its  last  years.  Thus  the  poem  opens  with  a  glorification  of  old 
age.  7-1 1.  Not  that  .  .  .  Youth  sighed  ;  Not  that  ...  it  yearned.  These 
clauses  are  objects  of  '  remonstrate  '  (15).  These  hopes  and  indecisions  of 
youth,  though  they  render  his  '  brief  years  '  more  or  less  profitless,  are  really 
valuable  as  furnishing  his  chief  distinction  from  the  lower  forms  of  life  (16- 
18).  24.  Irks  .  .  .  beast,  does  care  irk,  etc.?  The  bird  and  the  beast  are 
troubled  by  no  doubts,  no  "  obstinate  questionings."  Their  material  com- 
fort is  to  them  the  end  of  life.  29-30.  Nearer  .  .  .  believe.  Point  out  the 
reasoning  by  which  we  are  shown  to  be  allied  to  God  rather  than  to  the  lower 
animals. 

31-60.  39.  Shall  .  .  .  fail.  Not  achievement  but  aspiration  and  effort 
are  the  measures  of  success.  The  brute  creation  may  achieve  its  own  perfec- 
tion —  may  get  all  it  aims  for,  but  its  aims  are  low.  44.  Whose  .  .  .  suit, 
whose  soul  is  satisfied  with  providing  creature  comforts.  49.  Yet  gifts  .  .  . 
use.  The  perfect  bodily  powers  given  to  us  must  and  can  justify  their  exist- 
ence. 50-51.  I  own  .  .  .  power.  The  earlier  part  of  man's  life  gives  him 
power  ;  it  is  the  time  of  struggle  and  achievement,  the  time  when  man  '  lives 
and  learns.'  52.  dole,  derived  from  deal ;  i.e.  the  share  dealt  out.  57.  I 
.  .  .  too.  The  latter  part  of  man's  life  teaches  him  Love  as  a  necessary  com- 
plement to  the  power.     Both  are  motive  forces  of  the  universe. 

61-102.  61.  pleasant  is  this  flesh.  The  ascetic  is  not  the  true  ideal  of 
manhood  ;  the  body  in  its  place  is  good  and  beautiful,  and  we  should  not 
allow  ourselves  to  beheve  (67-72)  that  our  soul's  success  is  in  spite  of  the 
body.  75.  term,  a  resting-place  or  limit.  76.  Thence,  i.e.  from  youth,  after 
having  received  the  inheritance  of  the  wisdom  of  maturity.  Lessons  have 
been  learned  (54)  which  make  the  life  of  the  man  wiser  and  his  actions  surer 


696  NOTES  TO  BROWNING 

than  in  youth.  This  is  the  time  (85-90)  for  self-testing.  84.  indue,  in  its 
radical  sense  (Lat.  m</«e;'e).  See  Diet.  91-96.  For  .  .  .  day.  When  even- 
ing is  about  to  fade  into  night,  a  brief  moment  seems  to  delay  the  deepening 
gloom  ('  the  deed  ')•  Analyze  the  metaphor  and  make  its  application. 
Whence  comes  the  '  whisper  from  the  west '  (94)?  98.  lifted  o'er  its  strife. 
i.e.  the  calm  of  old  age.     100.  rage,  eager  passion  or  desire. 

103-150.  106.  Here,  in  old  age.  109-114.  As  .  .  .  Further.  These 
lines  furnish  a  suggestive  antithesis  between  the  respective  functions  of  youth 
and  of  old  age.  no.  acts  uncouth,  hesitating  and  clumsy  endeavors.  Cf. 
note  on  11.  7-1 1.  113.  tempt,  make  trial — the  radical  meaning  of  the 
word.  115-120.  Enough  .  .  .  alone.'  Thus  old  age  is  the  proper  time  for 
absolute  knowledge.  It  has  no  concern  with  the  noisy  uncertainties  of 
youth.  This  confidence  of  old  age  gives  it  serenity,  the  "  faith  that  looks 
through  death,"  the  "  philosophic  mind  "  of  which  Wordsworth,  too  has 
spoken.  Only  in  old  age,  accordingly,  —  the  time  of  this  "  absolute  knowl- 
edge "  of  the  soul,  —  can  we  take  the  proper  measure  of  our  past  endeavors, 
discover  whether  we  or  our  adversaries  were  right  (124-132).  121-122.  Be 
there  .  .  .  small.  Let  there  be  at  last  a  judgment  as  to  jthe  greatness  or 
littleness  of  man's  actions  in  the  past.  124,  125.  I,  they.  Understand 
*  whom  '  after  each  word.  Browning  frequently  suppresses  the  relative. 
133-138.  Not  .  .  .  trice.  Performance  —  actual  things  accomplished  — 
is  not  the  measure  of  success,  despite  the  world's  opinion  to  the  contrary. 
139-150.  But  all  .  .  .  God  :  cf.  note  to  1.  39.  Also  cf.  with  this  passage 
Lye.  (78-84).  141.  passed,  passed  over  through  lack  of  proper  estimate. 
150.  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped.  This  introduces  the  fine  metaphor 
of  the  Potter's  wheel  with  which  the  poem  ends.  See  Isaiah  Ixiv.  8  and 
Jeremiah  xviii.  2-6.  God  is  the  Potter.  We,  fixed  to  the  wheel  of  life  or 
time,  are  the  clay  which  he  shapes  to  his  own  uses.  See  the  cut  under 
Potter's  wheel  in  the  Century  or  some  other  dictionary.  Our  doubts  and 
fears,  joys  and  desires,  perplexities  and  agonizings  after  truth,  pressing 
upon  us  as  the  wheel  revolves,  serve  as  machinery  meant  to  turn  forth  the 
clay  (that  is,  the  human  soul)  in  the  form  fit  for  the  Potter's  service.  Thus 
the  actually  permanent  is  secured  through  what  we  had  regarded  as  circum- 
stance and  change. 

151-192.  154-156.  Thou  .  .  .  seize  to-day,  an  apostrophe  to  the  be- 
liever in  that  kind  of  Epicurean  philosophy  which  lives  only  in  the  present ; 
thinks  all  things  change  and  pass  away  ;  does  not  realize  the  permanence  of 
the  soul's  achievements.  165.  This  Present  .  .  .  fain  arrest,  as  indi- 
cated in  the  speech  of  1.  156.  168.  impressed,  moulded  or  shaped.  169- 
174.  What  .  .  .  stress.  The  ornamentations  on  the  cup.  The  earlier 
grooves  are  made  by  the  pressure  of  the  Potter's  tool  upon  our  youthful  lives. 
The  skull-things  proceed  from  the  sterner  pressure  of  the  tool  in  our  later 
years.  But  neither  the  Cupids  at  the  base  nor  the  skull-things  at  the  rim  of 
the  pitcher  are  the  end  for  which  it  was  made.  Its  end  is  to  be  used  as  a 
drinking  vessel  at  which  the  Master  may  slake  his  thirst  (175-180).    Dis- 


PROSPICE  697 

cuss  in  general  the  figure  of  the  cup,  its  ornamentations,  and  its  uses.  Espe- 
cially explain  1.  180.  179.  Master's  lips.  Mankind  is  being  shaped  for 
future  communion  with  God.  See  Matthew  xxvi.  29.  185.  "With  .  .  .  rife. 
What  is  meant  by  these  '  shapes  and  colors  '  ?  186.  my  end,  to  slake  Thy 
thirst.  That  is  to  say^  "  man's  chief  end  is  to  glorify  God  "  ;  but  to  this 
function  the  Shorter  Catechism  wisely  adds  the  compensation,  "  and 
to  enjoy  Him  forever."  Neither  face  of  the  shield  is  complete  without 
the  other.  190.  My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  :  cf.  Psalms  xxiv.  15.  191. 
Perfect,  a  verb.  192.  Let  age  ...  the  same.  Thus  it  is  age,  and  age 
alone,  which  is  able  to  understand  the  significance  of  the  whole  of  life. 
Accordingly  for  the  youth  whom  the  rabbi  is  addressing  — 

"  The  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life  for  which  the  first  was  made." 

Point  out  the  stanzas  that  show  the  meaning  of  Ufe  to  be  the  education  and 
maturing  of  the  soul  ;  also  those  that  suggest  the  doctrine  of  immortahty. 
Does  the  rabbi  make  any  allowance  for  the  free  action  of  the  human  will  in 
this  development  of  the  human  soul  ?  Indicate  lines  that  may  be  regarded 
as  touchstones.     See  Introduction,  §  34. 

PROSPICE 

First  printed  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  vol.  xiii,  June,  1864,  p.  694 ;  written 
in  1 86 1,  following  the  death  of  the  poet's  wife.  The  poem  is  a  noble,  in- 
spiring expression  of  Browning's  defiance  of  death  and  of  his  belief  in  per- 
sonal immortality.  — 

Prospice,  Look  forward  !  Expression  of  the  expectation  of  the  soul's 
victory  over  death.  1-12.  The  approach  of  death  described  in  various 
figures  —  fog  and  mist,  snows  and  winds  (blasts,  1.  3) :  these  will  tell  him 
that  he  is  near  the  very  place  (4),  the  midmost  darkness  and  storm  (5),  the 
very  post  (6)  of  death,  the  great  foe,  the  Arch  Fear  (7),  with  whom  the 
supreme  battle  must  be  waged  before  the  supreme  reward  can  be  won 
(11- 1 2).  Shall  he  fear  all  this  ?  13-28.  The  answer  :  he  has  ever  been  a 
fighter,  — '  so  one  fight  more.  The  best  and  the  last '  (13-14);  he  would 
hate  to  be  saved  the  consciousness  of  dying  (15-16);  he  would  meet  death 
heroically,  encountering  all  of  pain  and  darkness  he  needs  must  ('  glad  life's 
arrears,'  —  the  pain  he  has  as  yet  escaped),  for  all  turns  to  the  best  for  the 
brave,  and  after  the  pain  of  death  will  come  peace  and  reunion  with  his  wife 
(27-28). 

I.  To  make  the  construction  clear  supply  '  Shall  I  be  afraid '  before 
'  to  feel.'  5-6.  power  .  .  .  press  .  .  .  post.  Objects  of  ''  nearing ' 
(4),  coordinate  with  '  place '  (4),  and  followed  by  the  adverbial  clause, 
'  Where  he  stands '  (7).  23.  fiend-voices.  Figurative  for  the  pains  and 
struggles  of  death,  which  change  into  peace  and  light  (25,  26). 


698  NOTES  TO  ARNOLD 

EPILOGUE   (to  ASOLANDO) 

Like  Tennyson's  Crossing  the  Bar,  this  Epilogue  may  be  regarded  as  a 
valedictory  —  a  great  poet's  last  message  to  the  world.  Berdoe  says  in  his 
Browning  Cyclopedia  that  the  volume  containing  these  lines  "  was  published 
in  London  on  the  very  day  on  which  the  poet  died  in  Venice."  The  follow- 
ing reference  to  this  poem  is  also  quoted  from  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  Feb- 
ruary 1 ,  1890.  It  was  one  evening  just  before  his  death  illness  that  Browning 
was  reading  to  his  daughter-in-law  and  sister,  from  the  printer's  proof  sheets, 
the  third  stanza  of  this, Epilogue.  "  He  said,  *  It  almost  looks  like  bragging  to 
say  this,  and  as  if  I  ought  to  cancel  it ;  but  it's  the  simple  truth  ;  and  as  it's 
true,  it  shall  stand.'  His  faith  knew  no  doubting.  In  all  trouble,  against  all 
evU,  he  stood  firm."  This  Epilogue  was  written  in  Browning's  extreme  old 
age,  and  sums  up  magnificently  the  aim  and  spirit  of  the  poet's  whole  hfe. 
'  Strive  and  thrive  —  fight  on  '  is  the  noble  and  characteristic  trumpet-call 
which  we  find  in  this,  the  last  line  of  his  last  poem.  It  was  a  call  which 
he  had  been  sounding,  in  one  form  or  another,  for  nearly  sixty  years. 

ARNOLD 

THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

The  Forsaken  Merman,  though  by  no  means  the  deepest  or  most  preten- 
tious of  Arnold's  poems,  is,  nevertheless,  one  of  the  most  imaginative  and 
musical,  and  unquestionably  the  best  kno^vn  and  most  popular.  The  causes 
of  its  popularity  are  not  far  to  seek.  The  music  of  its  rhythm  is  exquisite. 
The  pictures  it  presents  are  clear  and  definite.  Its  elemeiit  of  pathos  is 
supremely  touching  and  rings  true.  The  ethical  problem  involved  is  not 
obtruded  on  the  reader,  yet  is  the  vital  motive  of  the  poem.  Has  this 
mother  saved  her  soul  by  her  action,  and,  if  so,  was  it  worth  saving  ?  A 
woman  is  married  to  a  merman.  Happiness  is  theirs  until  the  wife  discovers 
that  continuance  in  this  unhallowed  union  will  involve  the  loss  of  her  soul. 
And  so  it  is  that  — 

"  She  left  lonely  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

The  Forsaken  Merman  was  written  in  1849  and  published  in  Arnold's  first 
book  of  poems. 

1-47.  6.  wild  white  horses.  The  merman  and  his  children  have  left 
their  sea-caves  and  approach  the  shore,  where  they  are  surrounded  by  the 
foamy  breakers  of  the  surf.  See  1.  21.  26.  little  grey  church  :  see  11.  56- 
59.  34.  silver  bell  :  see  1.  54.  What  is  gained  by  introducing  the  sound  of 
the  church  bell  into  this  passage  ?  37.  spent,  in  passing  through  the  water. 
42.  mail,  the  scales  which  cover  and  protect  the  snakes.  45.  aye.  This 
word  is  frequently  mispronounced.    With  which  line  does  it  rhyme  ? 

48-84.  53-54.  She  combed  .  .  .  far-ofif  bell.  Show  how  this  couplet 
suggests  the  whole  tragedy  of  the  poem.    61.  kind  sea-caves.    Why  *  kind  '? 


RUGBY  CHAPEL  699 

64.  were  we  long  alone  ?  What  are  we  to  understand  by  this  question,  and 
by  the  other  so  often  repeated,  —  *  was  it  yesterday  ?  '  How  long  has  she 
really  been  gone  ?  68.  down.  Meaning  ?  69.  sea-stocks.  A  flowering 
plant  growing  upon  the  seacoasts  of  certain  countries,  72-82.  From  the 
church  .  .  .  shut  stands  the  door.  Contrast  the  two  pictures,  —  the  one 
outside  the  church,  the  other  inside. 

8&-107.  Draw  the  picture  of  the  mother  as  outlined  in  the  first  and  the 
last  half  of  this  stanza.  How  reconcile  '  joyfully  '  (88  and  95)  with  *  sigh  ' 
(loi  and  105)  ?  Is  it  a  change  of  mood,  or  is  one  of  the  moods  only  pretended 
and  not  real  ?  Does  the  merman  see  this  or  only  imagine  it  ?  91.  holy 
well,  evidently  a  well  of  miraculous  powers  near  the  church  of  the  little 
*  white- walled  town.' 

108-143.  118.  A  ceiling  of  amber,  thus  contrasting  the  peacefulness  of 
their  sea  home  with  the  storms  of  the  upper  air.  124.  But,  etc.  Does  this 
conjunction  indicate  that  the  two  stanzas  are  to  be  contrasted  ?  If  so,  what 
are  the  elements  of  contrast  ?  Compare  the  songs  which  end  each  stanza. 
127.  spring-tides,  the  tides  which  happen  at,  or  soon  after,  the  new  and  the 
full  moon.  But  this  is  high  tide.  What,  then,  can  the  poet  mean  by '  low  '  ? 
129.  heaths  starred  with  broom.  Look  up  words  and  describe  picture. 
131.  blanched.     Explain. 

TO   MARGUERITE 

Pubhshed  1852.  This  is  one  of  Arnold's  most  exquisite  lyrics,  —  pro- 
found in  thought,  impassioned,  rich  in  images,  and  mellifluous.  To  the 
philosophical  conception  of  the  essential  unity  of  all  things  there  seems  to  be 
added  here  a  personal  yearning,  a  '  longing  like  despair,'  to  come  into 
sympathetic,  intimate  relationship  with  one's  fellows. 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 

The  chapel  at  Rugby  is  the  burial  place  of  Matthew  Arnold's  father,  Dr. 
Thomas  Arnold,  the  famous  headmaster  of  the  school,  and  known  to  all 
boys  as  "  the  Doctor  "  of  Tom  Brown's  School  Days  at  Rugby.  Dr.  Arnold 
was  bom  on  the  Isle  of  Wight,  1795,  and  was  educated  at  Winchester  and 
at  Oxford,  where,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  he  became  a  Fellow  of  Oriel.  After 
leaving  Oxford,  in  1819,  he  opened  a  private  school  at  Laleham  on  the 
Thames,  which  he  conducted  for  nine  years,  and  from  which  he  was  elected 
to  the  position  of  headmaster  at  Rugby.  Rugby  at  that  time  ranked  far 
below  the  more  important  English  public  schools,  such  as  Eton,  Harrow,  and 
Winchester.  The  moral  tone  of  the  school  was  bad  ;  the  standards  were 
low  ;  self-indulgence,  lawlessness,  and  contempt  for  authority  were  charac- 
teristics common  among  the  boys.  Such,  however,  was  Arnold's  ability, 
tact,  and  energy  that  within  the  fourteen  years  of  his  headmastership  he 
raised  Rugby  to  a  place  among  the  best  of  English  schools,  and  gave  it  a 
name  for  inspiring  in  its  boys  seriousness  of  purpose  and  high  ideals  of 
Christian  manhood. 


700  NOTES   TO  ARNOLD 

Rugby  Chapel  was  written  in  November,  1857,  when  the  elder  Arnold  had 
been  dead  fifteen  years.  At  the  time  of  his  father's  death  Matthew  Arnold, 
then  a  student  at  Oxford,  was  in  his  twentieth  year.  Much  of  his  boyhood 
and  youth  had  been  spent  in  the  companionship  and  under  the  guidance  of 
his  father,  and  this  poem,  accordingly,  has  a  deeper  and  tenderer  significance 
than  belongs  to  most  elegies.     (On  assonance,  see  Introduction,  §  23,  3-) 

1-36.  What  is  the  metre  of  Rugby  Chapel,  what  effect  does  the  swing  of 
the  lines  produce,  and  how  is  this  effect  suited  to  the  subject  and  the  mood  of 
the  poem  ?  Does  the  absence  of  rhyme  detract  from  the  effect  ?  It  may  be 
noted  that  Arnold  has  used  the  same  metrical  system  in  other  elegiac  poems 
—  such  as  Heine's  Grave  and  Haworth  Churchyard.  1-13.  Coldly  .  .  . 
laid.  Describe  the  scene  as  given  in  this  first  stanza.  16-17.  That  word 
.  .  .  Brings  thee  back.  How  does  the  word  '  gloom '  bring  back  his  father  ? 
30.  Sudden.  Dr.  Arnold  died  of  heart  disease,  June  12,  1842,  when  only  in 
his  forty-seventh  year. 

37-57.  Matthew  Arnold  was  most  liberal  in  his  religious  beliefs.  Many 
tenets  that  some  Christians  regard  as  vital  were  not  so  to  him  ;  but  rarely  in 
any  poet  do  we  find  a  belief  in  a  future  life  stronger  or  more  nobly  expressed 
than  in  this  passage.     Arnold,  however,  was  not  always  so  sure. 

58-123.  58-72.  What  is  .  .  .  gone.  Characterize  and  describe  the 
tjT^e  of  mankind  described  in  this  division.  73-83.  And  .  .  .  grave. 
Likewise  characterize  this  class  of  men  and  show  their  aims.  80-81.  Not 
.  .  .  Fruitless,  not  to  die  fruitless  without  action.  In  the  same  way  other 
obscurities  of  the  poem  may  be  cleared  up  by  simple  transposition  of  words. 
84-109.  We  .  .  .  rocks.  Show  what  experiences  of  life  are  symbolized  by 
the  various  details  of  this  fine  metaphor,  e.g.  what  is  meant  by  the  '  path  * 
(84),  the  'goal'  (85),  the  'gorges'  (88),  the  'storm'  (90),  etc.? 
no.  gaunt  and  taciturn  host.     For  what  does  this  '  host '  stand  ? 

124-144.  In  the  metaphor  of  these  lines  the  poet  beautifully  suggests 
the  secret  of  his  father's  greatness.  Point  out  the  characteristics  of  Dr. 
Arnold,  here  outlined,  which  distinguish  his  life  from  such  a  life  as  that 
described  in  11.  11 7-1 23. 

145-170.  It  is  everywhere  Matthew  Arnold's  teaching  that  the  world 
can  be  saved  only  through  its  few  supremely  noble  men, '  helpers  and  friends 
of  mankind.'  How  has  his  father's  life  enforced  this  belief  ?  168.  Yours 
is  the  praise,  i.e.  it  is  due  to  you. 

171-208.  In  these  lines  the  poet  reverts  to  his  metaphor  of  the  journey 
of  life  (11.  84-109),  and  indicates  the  work  in  store  for  those  '  Servants  of 
God  '  whose  souls  are  of  the  same  heroic  mould  as  that  of  Dr.  Arnold. 

DOVER   BEACH 

In  his  Primer  of  English  Literature,  Stopford  Brooke  says  of  Arnold, 
"  He  embodied  in  his  poetry,  even  in  his  early  book  of  1852,  the  restlessness, 
the  dimness,  the  hopelessness  of  a  world  which  had  lost  the  vision  of  the 
ancient  stars  and  could  cling  to  nothing  but  a  stoic  conduct."    In  none  of 


JUGGLING  JERRY  701 

Arnold's  poems  is  this  view  more  clearly  expressed  than  in  Dover  Beach.  The 
dominant  note  of  the  poem  is  despair,  yet  there  is  a  hint  of  the  fortitude,  the 
patience,  the  perseverance  witt  which  it  is  necessary  for  man  to  bear  his  lot. 
The  poem  is  especially  notable  for  its  restraint  of  utterance  and  stoical  self- 
repression  and  resignation.  In  all  ways  it  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  a 
large  part  of  Arnold's  poetical  work.  It  originally  formed  part  of  the  volume 
of  1867. 

The  first  stanza  in  wonderfully  musical  lines  paints  the  scene  before  the 
poet.  But  what  is  the  prevailing  note  of  the  division?  What  is  the '  thought ' 
referred  to  in  1.  19  ?  Explain  the  metaphor  of  the  third  division  and  show 
what  Arnold  means  by  this  ebbing  of  '  the  sea  of  faith.'  What  are  the  '  naked 
shingles  of  the  world  '  (28)?  In  the  fourth  division  can  you  find  any  hope  in 
the  midst  of  the  *  confused  alarms  '  ?  Help,  Arnold  always  taught,  must 
come  from  the  soul  itself.    What  is  meant  in  1.  37  by  the  *  ignorant  armies '  ? 

REQUTESCAT 

In  this  almost  perfect  dirge,  attention  need  be  called  only  to  the  melan- 
choly music  of  the  verse  and  to  the  rare  taste  which  is  shown  in  the  choice  of 
title.  Requiescat  —  May  she  rest —  is  a  wish  exquisitely  appropriate  for  her 
whose  *  heart  was  tired  '  and  whose  soul  *  yearning  '  for  peace. 

MEREDITH 

JUGGLING  JERRY 

This  poem  was  first  published  in  1859.  The  old  juggler,  dying,  addresses 
his  wife  of  many  years.  Reminiscent,  justifying  his  calling  and  his  love  of 
the  open  road,  murmuring  his  views  of  life,  of  human  nature  and  God,  fondly 
comforting  his  companion,  hinting  at  immortality,  stout-hearted  Jerry  — 
tender,  sincere,  and  quaintly  humorous  —  meets  his  death  like  the  brave 
gentleman  he  is.  This  manly  and  pathetic  poem  is  keenly  true  to  the  un- 
conscious nobility  of  strong  hearts  and  simple  minds.  Clean  with  the  savor 
of  *  God's  great  house  on  a  blowing  day,'  it  expresses  what  is  at  the  heart 
of  all  Meredith's  best  work,  —  a  profound  apprehension  of  the  wonder  and 
the  beauty,  the  comedy  and  the  tragedy  of  life,  a  splendid  acquiescence  in 
the  facts  of  existence,  a  consciousness  of  the  need  for  brave  struggle,  and 
even  though  we  may  not  assert  what  lies  beyond  this  life,  a  faith  like  that  of 
Browning's  Pippa  :  "  God's  in  his  heaven.  All's  right  with  the  world."  — 
Both  this  poem  and  the  next  are  dramatic  monologues,  after  the  fashion-of 
Browning's  My  Last  Duchess.  What  other  similarities  to  that  poet's  style 
do  you  detect  in  Juggling  Jerry  and  Martin's  Puzzle? 

7.  One  that  outjuggles,  Death.  Jerry,  himself  a  juggler,  sees  the  game 
of  life  as  a  Vast  sleight-of-hand  contest  in  which  physical  fitness,  mental 
alertness,  and  courage  and  good  humor,  too,  win  the  day  —  until  Death, 
the  Great  Juggler,  outwits  us  all  and  seizes  us  for  his  own.  But  before  we 
finish  the  story  we  are  aware  of  a  higher  Power,  the  Lord  to  whom  the  lease 


702  NOTES   TO  LOWELL 

of  life  belongs  and  who,  as  Jerry  thinks,  may  yet  rescue  us  from  the  '  black 
hollow '  into  which  Death  seems  to  draw  us  down,  spying,  has  had  his 
eye  upon  me.  9.  times,  many  tunes.  10.  gorse,  furze.  24.  safe,  certain. 
25.  cricket.  Verb.  26.  wide,  far.  27.  Cricket  terms ;  see  Did.  30. 
halts,  stops.  34.  bait  for  the  fool,  allure  the  fool  by  a  bait.  43.  Explain 
the  line.  45.  the  professor,  i.e.  the  juggler.  48.  Ironical.  They  praise 
him  for  tricking  them  :  there's  a  commentary  for  you  !  49.  topsy-turvy. 
Referring  to  the  upside-down  artifices,  the  wiles  and  hoaxes,  of  the  con- 
jurer's craft.  67.  bolus.  Distinguish  between  pill  and  bolus  ;  see  Diet. 
76.  You  shan't  have  to  beg  for  the  leavings  in  troughs  and  tubs.  81. 
chirper.  The  tankard  or  mug  of  ale,  so  named  from  the  '  chirping  '  of  the 
lips  as  the  drinker  imbibes.  84.  The  Lord  must  have  his  lease,  i.e.  must 
have  back  the  lease  of  life  He  grants  to  each.  85-86.  Maybe  the  black 
hollow  of  death  is  but  a  place  where  we  are  held  as  a  pledge  to  be  redeemed 
in  God's  good  time.  87-88.  When  Death  goes  through  the  form  of 
swallowing  us  up,  perhaps  it's  only  a  seeming  :  Jerry's  quaint  faith  in 
Providence.  I  ain't  quite  gone.  No,  Death  hasn't  got  me  yet  !  90. 
Gold-like.  The  furze  has  yellow  flowers.  94.  heath,  open,  uncultivated 
land  (see  Diet.).    95.  it.    The  change  of  death,  now  overtaking  hun. 

martin's  puzzle 

This  poem  was  first  published  in  1865.  Martin,  the  cobbler,  has  a  puzzle: 
how  to  "  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,"  —  in  particular  to  poor  little 
Molly,  who  is  horribly  maimed.  His  puzzle  is  increased  by  the  '  wonder- 
ful stuff '  of  Molly,  who  talks  like  a  song,  and  whose  voice  takes  your  ear 
like  the  ring  of  a  glass.  After  he  has  cast  aside  as  unsatisfactory  several 
explanations  of  why  such  suffering  should  exist — really,  of  why  there  should 
be  evil  in  the  world  —  Martin  (in  the  last  stanza)  lights  on  an  idea  the 
grandeur  of  which  almost  blinds  him,  and  he  is  content  to  worship  the  good 
God  with  the  childlike  trust  of  Molly.  —  The  thought  of  the  poem  may  here 
and  there  be  a  little  difficult,  but  the  expression  is  so  simple  and  clear  that 
notes  may  be  practically  dispensed  with.  The  juggler  and  cobbler  —  Jerry 
and  Martin  —  are  men  of  simple,  direct  minds,  both  aware  of  the  mystery 
of  life.  What  is  the  difference  between  them  ?  Is  Jerry's  answer  to  the 
problem  the  same  as  Martin's  ?  12.  The  father  was  so  careless  about  the 
injury  that  the  girl's  leg  had  to  be  amputated.  31.  near  on,  etc.  :  When 
I'm  just  about  to  solve  the  puzzle. 

LOWELL 

THE   VISION   OF   SIR   LAUNFAL 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  was  written  in  1848,  when  Lowell  was  only  in 
his  thirtieth  year.  This  poem  has  been  very  justly  praised  as  one  of  the  best 
America  has  ever  produced  ;  indeed,  in  many  respects,  it  deserves  to  rank 
very  high  among  the  noblest  poems  of  the  English  language.    It  has  been 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  703 

said  that  it  was  composed  in  a  single  day  ;  that  its  author  became  so  absorbed 
in  his  theme  that  he  hurried  it  to  completion  almost  without  pause.  Traces 
of  this  haste  may  possibly  be  detected  in  a  certain  lack  of  unity.  Critics  have 
pointed  out,  for  instance,  that  the  two  preludes,  though  in  themselves  charm- 
ing httle  nature  poems,  are  not  sufficiently  vital  to  the  story  as  a  whole. 
Though  this  may  be  true,  it  is  doubtless  equally  true  that  no  one  would  be 
willing  to  dispense  with  these  preludes  or  to  change  them  in  any  important 
particular.  Stedman,  in  his  Poets  of  America,  expresses  the  belief  "  that  The 
Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  owed  its  success  quite  as  much  to  a  presentation  of 
nature  as  to  its  misty  legend.  It  really  is,"  he  continues,  "  a  landscape  poem 
.of  which  the  lovely  passage,  '  And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ?  '  and 
the  wintry  prelude  to  Part  Second  are  the  specific  features." 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  is,  however,  much  more  than  that.  In  spite 
of  its  "  misty  "  medieval  setting,  the  poem  is  essentially  ethical,  and  as  such 
is  far  greater  than  any  mere  "  landscape  poem."  Its  theme  is  the  brother- 
hood of  man,  a  revelation  of  that '  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  beauty  which 
runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,'  a  contrast  between  a  true  ideal  of  the 
service  of  God  and  a  false  ideal  of  that  service,  a  portrayal  of  that  charity 
which  "  suffereth  long  and  is  kind."  So  much  for  its  teaching.  As  to  its 
art.  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  is  one  of  the  most  purely  poetical  of  all 
Lowell's  poems.  The  diction,  the  figurative  language,  the  music  of  the  verse, 
the  exquisite  setting  of  the  story,  the  fitting  expression  of  keen  insight  and 
tender  human  sympathy  —  all  unite  to  make  this  poem  a  masterpiece. 

Lowell  has  left  the  following  accoimt  of  the  Holy  Grail,  whose  quest  forms 
the  motif  for  his  plot  :  — 

"  According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers,  the  San  Greal,  or  Holy 
Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  Christ  partook  of  the  last  supper  with 
his  disciples.  It  was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and 
remained  there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration,  for  many  years  in  the 
keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants.  It  was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had 
charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed  ;  but  one  of  the  keepers 
having  broken  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared.  From  that  tune 
it  was  a  favorite  enterprise  of  the  Knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of 
it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be  read  in  the 
seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  King  Arthur.  Tennyson  has  made  Sir 
Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his  poems. 

"  The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so  sUght)  of  the  following 
poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I  have  enlarged  the  circle  of  com- 
petition in  search  of  the  miraculous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  include  not 
only  other  persons  than  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of 
time  subsequent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign." 

Thus  we  see  that  this  is  not  an  Arthurian  legend  ;  nor  is  it  in  the  strictest 
sense  of  the  word  a  story  of  knightly  adventure.  At  the  same  time  it  is 
sufficiently  tmged  with  the  spirit  of  old  romance  to  be  included  properly 
among  these  "  poems  of  chivalry." 


704  NOTES  TO  LOWELL 

1-8.  This  may  be  called  a  general  prelude  to  the  poem,  and  really  pre- 
cedes "  Prelude  to  Part  First."  Show  the  relation  to  the  poem  and  trace  the 
figure  running  through  these  lines,  noting  that  the  chords  struck  by  the 
organist  symbolize  similar  chords  sounded  by  the  poet  in  his  preludes,  each 
chord  bringing  him  nearer  to  his  ultimate  theme.  What  is  the  versification 
of  these  lines  ?  4.  bridge.  What  is  this,  bridge  and  what  does  it  span  ? 
Trace  the  steps  by  which  the  poet  conducts  the  reader  over  this  bridge  from 
his  everyday  world  to  the  world  of  the  vision.  The  story  is  rich  in  poetic 
figures  and  memory-images  ;  the  student  should  apply  in  the  analysis  of 
them  the  paragraphs  on  Imagination  and. Figures  in  Introduction,  §§  6-8. 

9-32.  9-12.  The  ^r^/ chord  struck  by  the  poet.  9-10.  Not  .  .  .  lie, 
suggested  by  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality,  Stanza  V, 
especially  1.  67.  But  the  older  poet's  thought  (see  notes  on  Ode,  Stanzas  V 
and  VI)  is  very  different  from  that  of  Lowell,  who  is  saying  that  we  fail  to  see 
heaven,  not  because  we  have  forgotten  it,  but  because  we  are  willfully  blind 
to  it.  12.  Sinais  climb,  i.e.  get  face  to  face  with  God.  See  Exodus  xix. 
17-20.  13-20.  The  second  chord.  Explain  its  relation  to  the  preceding 
lines.  13.  manhood,  the  emphatic  word  of  the  line.  Why  ?  14.  fallen, 
from  what  ?  traitor,  to  what  ?  15.  prophecies,  of  what  ?  16.  mountain. 
Observe  the  contrasts,  in  all  these  lines,  between  nature  and  man,  e.g.  the  firm 
and  stable  '  mountain  '  striving  with  the  '  faint  heart.'  17.  druid  wood. 
Show  suggestiveness  of  epithet.  21-32.  The  third  chord.  Show  connec- 
tion and  meaning  as  before.  21-24.  Earth  ...  in.  What  does  Earth 
give  us,  and  what  is  its  price  ?  Discuss  the  three  instances,  and  show  why 
chosen.  25-28.  At  .  .  .  tasking.  What  is  *  the  devil's  booth  '  as  dis- 
tinguished from  *  Earth '  ?  Discuss  the  instances  given.  27.  pay.  In  what 
way  do  we  pay  our  lives  ?  29-30.  'Tis  .  .  .  asking.  What  is  meant  here 
by  '  heaven  '  and  '  God  '  ?  31-32.  No  .  .  .  comer.  Two  transitional 
lines,  introducing  the  next  theme  or  chord. 

33-56.  The  fourth  chord.  Name  the  various  things  which  together 
make  up  this  New  England  June  day,  for  it  is  a  New  England  June  that  the 
poet  is  describing.  35.  if  it  be  in  tune.  Syntax  and  meaning  of  this  clause  ? 
What  musical  instrument  has  the  poet  in  mind  ?  38.  murmur  .  .  .  glisten. 
Give  illustrations  of  the  '  murmur  '  and  of  the  '  glisten.'  39.  clod.  In  what 
sense  does  it  climb  to  a  '  soul '  ?  -45.  startles,  starts  up  as  if  by  magic.  46. 
buttercup.  Why  the  buttercup,  rather  than  some  other  flower  ?  50.  like  a 
blossom.  Show  in  what  respects  this  dainty  comparison  is  true.  54.  dumb 
breast.  Observe  the  beautiful  allusion  to  the  mother  instinct  in  the  bird. 
56.  nice.  Just  what  does  the  word  mean  here  ?  which  song  ?  What  do  you 
thmk  would  be  the  poet's  answer  to  his  own  question  ?     Why  ? 

57-79.  57-60.  Now  .  .  .  bay.  Discuss  the  figure,  showing  its  aptness. 
61.  Now  ...  it.  Explain.  70.  dandelions.  What  is  the  derivation  of 
this  word  ?  67-79.  We  .  .  .  crowing.  These  lines  furnish  a  good  ex- 
ample of  what  is  called  "  indirect  description."  77.  bold  chanticleer,  often 
referred  to  by  Lowell.    What  is  the  force  of  the  adjective  ? 


'       THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL         .  705 

80-95.  82.  upward  striving.  What  former  lines  illustrate  this  ? 
83-85.  'Tis  .  .  .  living.  What  seems  to  be  Lowell's  conception  of  the  influ- 
ence of  nature  upon  man  ?  Compare  with  Wordsworth  in  Tintern  Abbey 
(107-111).  Which  is  the  finer  view?  86.  Who  knows,  and  who  cares? 
What  is  gained  by  the  figure  ?  90.  The  .  .  .  youth.  Explain.  91-93. 
And  .  .  .  snow.  Discuss  this  figure,  and  compare  it  with  the  two  which 
have  before  brought  out  the  same  thought,  11.  57-60  and  11.  86-87.  What  are 
the  differences,  and  which  is  the  truer  conception  ?  Are  our  past  sorrows 
really  effaced  or  only  covered  over  ?  94-95.  What  .  .  .  vow.  Observe 
that  the  organist  has  found  the  chord  for  which  he  has  been  groping ;  the  poet 
has  reached  his  theme,  which  he  is  to  develop  by  means  of  the  story  of  a 
dream.  Note  how  these  two  lines  effect  a  transition  which  allows  the  abrupt 
introduction  to  Part  First. 

96-108.  What  has  been  the  versification  of  the  prelude  ?  What  are  the 
rhyme  and  metre  of  Part  I  ?  In  which  is  there  the  more  irregularity,  and 
what  seems  to  be  the  effect  produced  by  the  irregular  lines  ?  99.  Holy  Grail: 
see  introduction  to  notes.  100-105.  This  seeking  for  a  vision  before  setting 
out  on  a  quest  was  not  uncommon  among  knights  ;  but  the  zest  with  which 
the  vision  is  sought  marks  certain  traits  of  Sir  Launfal.  What  are  they  ? 
At  what  time  of  day  does  he  go  to  sleep,  and  is  it  indoors  or  outside  the 
castle  ?  105.  Ere  day  .  .  .  anew.  Discuss  the  figure.  107.  like  a  cloud. 
Show  the  points  of  comparison. 

109-127.  Discuss  whether  this  stanza  is  (i)  a  part  of  Sir  Launfal's 
dream  ;  or  (2)  a  part  of  his  waking  consciousness  as  he  gradually  falls  asleep  ; 
or  (3)  merely  a  description  by  the  poet,  bridging  the  time  from  the  going  to 
sleep  to  the  beginning  of  the  dream  in  Stanza  III.  109-113.  The  crows  .  .  . 
trees.  What  time  of  day  is  this?  114-115.  The  castle  .  .  .  gray.  In 
what  sense  is  the  castle  *  an  outpost '  ?  116.  North  Countree.  Where  may 
we  suppose  this -to  be  ?  Observe  the  archaic  form  of  '  country  '  as  in  the 
older  ballads.  What  effect  does  this  produce  ?  122-125.  pavilions  .  ,  . 
tent.     What  were  they  ? 

128-146.  131.  flamed  so  bright.  How  does  the  poet  show  this  bright- 
ness ?  134.  siege.  What  suggests  the  word,  and  where  suggested  before  ? 
137.  locust-leaf.  What  peculiarity  of  the  locust  leaf  justifies  this  compari- 
son ?  Note  alliteration  and  its  effect.  138.  unscarred,  because  a  '  maiden 
knight.'  140-146.  Point  out  the  contrasts  in  this  stanza,  and  explain  how 
the  knight  can  be  so  fully  in  sympathy  with  the  -sunmier,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  be  the  controlling  spirit  of  the  gloomy  castle.  In  what  is  he  lacking  ? 
140.  hill  and  stream  and  tree.  This  is  a  good  instance  of  the  poetic  value 
of  the  specific  and  definite  rather  than  the  general.  See  note  on  Horatius 
(23). 

147-158.  Note  the  attitude  of  Sir  Launfal  toward  the  leper.  He  be- 
lieves himself  to  be  going  on  a  great  mission  for  the  glory  of  God  ;  all  nature 
has  seemed  propitious  ;  his  heart  is  throbbing  with  his  consciousness  of  the 
beauty  of  the  morning  and  the  grandeur  of  his  quest,  when  suddenly  this 


7o6  NOTES  TO  LOWELL 

loathsome  creature  spoils  it  all  (as  it  appears  to  him)  by  getting  in  the  way. 
What  evident  misconception  of  the  knight  as  to  the  real  meaning  of  religion 
and  the  service  of  God  ?  147.  made  mom.  Explain.  149.  sate  :  see  note 
on  '  countree  '  (116).  154.  Like  a  frozen  waterfall.  Show  the  force  of  this 
figure.  is6.  dainty  nature.  How  do  these  words  explain  the  character  and 
action  of  Sir  Launfal  ?  158.  So  .  .  .  scorn.  Why  did  he  give  him  any- 
thing ?     Force  of '  tossed  '  ? 

169-173.  Discuss  the  reasons  for  the  leper's  reception  of  Sir  Launfal's 
gift.  163.  which  the  hand  can  hold,  modifies  what  ?  Why  is  such  not 
*  true  alms  '  ?  164-165.  Is  the  leper  right  in  condemning  giving  '  from  a 
sense  of  duty  '  ?  i66.  mite.  A  coin  of  exceedingly  small  value  —  less  than 
a  quarter  of  a  cent.  Look  up  allusion  in  Mark  xii.  42.  167.  to  that,  the 
preposition  means  partly,  in  recognition  of  that,  and  partly,  because  of  that. 
168-169.  That  .  .  .  unite.  What  is  this  '  thread  '  which  thus  binds  the 
whole  world  together  ?  170.  The  hand  .  .  .  alms.  Why  not  ?  171. 
The  heart  .  .  .  palms.  Explain.  172.  a  god  goes  with  it.  Meaning  ? 
store,  abundance.  172.  starving,  for  want  of  what  ?  in  darkness,  of  what 
kind  ? 

174-210.  Try  to  conceive  a  definite  picture  of  this  stanza — one  in 
which  each  detail  shall  be  consistent  with  the  rest.  How  does  a  brook 
freeze,  and  what  is  the  appearance  of  the  under  side  of  the  ice  ?  174-180. 
Down  .  .  .  bare.  Indicate  the  means  by  which  the  coldness  of  the  wind  is 
emphasized-  175.  summers.  Why  is  '  summers  '  more  suitable  here  than 
winters  ?  176.  wold,  here  means  a  rolling,  treeless  stretch  of  country.  180. 
unleafed.  Why  is  this  better  than  leafless?  182.  him.  A  personal 
pronoun  used  for  a  reflexive.  So  frequently  in  poetry.  Cf.  '  me  '  (162). 
183.  white  stars'.  Why  '  white '  ?  184.  groined  his  arches.  A  groin 
is  the  angle  formed  by  the  intersection  of  arches.  What  were  the  arches  in 
this  case  ?  What  the  beams  ?  What  the  crystal  spars  ?  '186.  lashes  .  .  . 
stars,  the  little  rays  that  edge  the  stars,  and  seem  to  dart  out  as  they  twinkle. 
187.  summer  delight  :  see  11.  205-210.  189-192.  Sometimes  .  .  .  breeze. 
Describe  this  little  forest  under  the  ice.  What  were  the  steel-stemmed 
trees  ?  Why  did  they  bend,  and  in  what  direction,  i.e.  up  or  down  stream  ? 
What  onomatopoeia  in  these  lines  ?  194.  mosses.  Was  this  real  moss  or 
an  ice  formation  ?  195-196.  Sometimes  .  .  .  leaf.  What  and  where  was 
the  carving  ?  Why  called  '  arabesques  '  ?  Derivation  and  meaning  of 
word  ?  202.  a  star.  These  drops,  on  the  '  nodding  '  bulrushes,  were  the 
stars  for  the  fairy  occupants  of  the  winter  palace.  204.  winter-palace. 
Ice-built  palaces  were  constructed  first  in  Russia  ;  now  frequently  in  Canada. 
205-210.  'Twas  .  .  .  frost.  Discuss  this  beautiful  picture.  What  might 
have  been  some  of  these  images,  or  '  fleeting  shadows  '  ? 

2\;L-224.  Explain  the  contrast  between  this  stanza  and  the  last.  212. 
cheeks  of  Christmas.  Is  this  a  personification  or  a  metonymy  ?  214. 
lightsome.  Does  it  mean  the  same  here  as  in  1.  137  ?  215-216.  Through 
.  .  .  tide.    Explain  the  figure.    217-218.  The  .  .  .  wind.    Show  how  the 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  707 

flame  resembles  a  flag.  219-220.  Like  .  .  .  blind.  In  what  sense  is  the 
sap  *  hunted  to  death,'  what  are  its  *  blind  galleries,'  and  what  makes  the 
noise  ?  221-224.  And  .  .  .  deer.  Show  how  the  sparks,  eddying  with 
the  draught  through  the  loose  soot  in  the  chimney,  are  like  deer,  while  the 
soot  is  like  a  forest, 

225-239.  225-232.  But  .  .  .  shelterless.  With  what  are  these  lines 
in  contrast  ?  Discuss  the  figure  which  they  express,  showing  whether  it  is 
attractive,  true,  effective,  and  whether  it  adds  to,  or  detracts  from,  the  poem. 
231.  burden,  the  theme  of  a  musical  composition.  232.  shelterless.  What 
is'the  effect  of  the  repetition  ?  233.  seneschal.  His  duties  seem  to  be  those 
of  both  warden  and  steward,  flared.  How  can  a  voice  be  said  to  flare  ? 
238.  piers.  Describe  these  piers.  In  what  direction  do  they  slant  ?  What 
is  the  '  drift '  against  which  they  were  seen  ? 

240-257.  241.  rattled  shudderingly.  Show  effect  of  the  onomatopoeia, 
and  force  of  the  adverb.  243.  For  .  .  .  spun.  Explain  the  figure.  244- 
243.  A  single  .  .  .  sun.  Contrast  with  11.  111-112.  Why  'cold'  sun? 
250.  hard  gate.  Explain  the  epithet.  251.  sate:  see  note  on  1.  116.  232. 
man.  Syntax  ?  255.  No  more  .  .  .  cross.  Show  the  significance  of  the 
fact  that  the  cross  is  no  longer  ostentatiously  displayed.  What  lesson  has 
Sir  Launfal  learned  ?  256.  sign,  i.e.  of  the  cross.  In  what  sense  was  it '  the 
badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor  '  ? 

258-272.  259.  Was  .  .  .  air,  Explain  the  figure.  261.  sunnier  clime, 
perhaps  in  the  Holy  Land  or  near  it.  Observe  the  comfort  and  pleasure 
that  Sir  Launfal  derives  from  these  imaginings,  yet  how  willingly  he  turns 
toward  the  grewsome  leper.  265.  black  and  small.  Syntax  ?  269-272. 
To  where  .  .  .  palms.     Show  points  of  appropriateness  in  the  figure. 

273-287.  273.  For  .  .  .  alms.  What  is  the  effectiveness  of  this  sudden 
interruption?  Observe  the  rhyme,  and  explain  how  this  adds  to  the  effect  of 
suddenness.  274.  may,  as  far  as  Sir  Launfal  cares.  275-279.  But  .  .  . 
disease.  Show  how  it  suits  the  poet's  purpose  to  make  the  leper  horrible. 
278-279.  Significance  of  the  simile  ?  280.  And.  The  force  here  of  this 
conjunction  ?  Why  was  But  not  used  ?  280-285.  I  behold  .  .  .  side  :  see 
Matthew  xxvii.  29,  Mark  xv.  17,  and  John  xx.  25,  27.  What  points  of  resem- 
blance does  Sir  Launfal  see  between  the  leper  and  Christ  ?  281.  tree,  cross. 
287.  Behold  .  .  .  Thee  :  see  Matthew  xxv.  40. 

288-301.  291.  flung  an  alms.  Force  of  '  flung  '  ?  leprosie.  What 
distinction  is  there  between  giving  to  the  leper  and  giving  to  '  leprosie  '  ? 
294.  ashes  and  dust.  What  do  these  symbolize  ?  Cf.  the  phrase  "  sack- 
cloth and  ashes."  295-297.  He  .  .  .  drink.  Compare  his  present  with  his 
former  action.  Why  does  the  poet  not  make  Sir  Launfal  give  all  his  crust 
to  the  leper?  300.  Yet  .  .  .  fed.  Explain.  *  301.  with  his  thirsty  soul. 
Why  is  he  said  to  have  drunk  with  his  soul  ?     Cf.  1.  173. 

302-327.  302.  mused.  On  what  was  Sir  Launfal  musing,  and  why 
with  '  downcast  face  '  ?  303.  A  light,  coming  from  the  transfigured  leper, 
who  now  proves  to  be  the  Christ.     307.  Beautiful  Gate  :  see  Acts  iii.  2.    308. 


7o8        NOTES   TO  IDYLLS  OF   THE  KING 

Himself  the  Gate  :  see  John  x.  9.  What  does  this  metaphor  mean,  and  what 
is  meant  by  '  the  temple  of  God  in  Man  '  ?  310-313.  His  words  .  .  .  upon. 
Which  of  the  two  similes  is  the  more  expressive  of  softness  ?  of  healing 
power  ?  314.  calmer  than  silence.  Can  there  be  anything  '  calmer  than 
silence'?  What  is  the  rhetorical  figure  ?  See  Introduction,  §9.  318.  it  is 
here  —  this  cup.  What  has  made  of  this  wooden  cup  a  holy  grail  ?  What  is 
significant  in  the  fact  that  it  was  in  Sir  Launfal's  possession  all  the  while, 
and  was  found  at  the  gate  of  his  own  castle  rather  than  in  distant  climes  ? 
Show  how  this  discovery  reverts  to  the  "  first  chord  "  of  the  poem,  11.  9-12. 
320-322.  This  crust  .  .  .  indeed  :  see  Matthew  xvi.  28.  Note  that  Sir 
Launfal  has  more  than  found  the  Grail ;  that  he  is  actually  partaking  in  a 
holy  supper.  What  is  now  shown  to  be  the  true  Holy  Grail,  and  where  may 
it  be  found  ?  324-325.  Not  what  .  .  .  bare.  Do  these  words  condemn 
what  we  ordinarily  term  "  charity  "  ?  What  shall  we  say  of  the  man  who 
contributes  for  the  help  of  those  with  whom  he  never  comes  into  contact  ? 
Of  the  man  whose  wealth  is  so  great  that  he  gives  without  making  any  self- 
sacrifice  ?  Is  sharing  a  necessary  condition  of  true  charity  ?  326.  feeds 
three.  Explain  how  the  giver  feeds  Christ  and  himself  as  well  as  the  re- 
cipient. 

328-347.  The  vision  of  Sir  Launfal  is  now  ended.  The  quest  is  proved 
imnecessary,  for  the  true  Grail  has  been  discovered.  Discuss  the  change 
which  this  discovery  must  have  brought  into  the  life  and  ideals  of  the  knight. 
328.  swound  :  cf.  Ancient  Mariner  (62).  332.  stronger  mail.  What  is 
meant  ?  334-336.  The  castle  .  .  .  bough.  Discuss  the  figure.  336. 
hangbird,  the  Baltimore  oriole.  See  Diet,  lender  both  hangbird  and  Balti- 
more oriole.  338-343-  The  Summer's  .  .  .  round  :  see  11.  1 19-12 7.  De- 
scribe and  account  for  the  change.  346-347.  And  there's  ...  he.  In 
what  sense  is  this  true  ?  What  lessons  can  you  suggest  which  Sir  Launfal 
may  have  learned  from  his  vision  ?  Which  lines  in  the  poem  seem  to  you 
most  poetic,  and  why  ?     (See  Introduction,  §  34.) 

IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING      . 

The  history  of  the  legends  which  form  the  substance  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
King  has  already  been  traced  in  the  text  introducing  the  poems  of  chivalry. 
Lack  of  space  prevents  the  inclusion  of  more  than  two  of  the  Idylls  in  this 
book.  The  four  following  general  notes  will,  we  trust,  clear  up  for  the 
student  most  of  the  difi&culties  he  will  encounter. 

[Note  I.]     The  Coming  of  Arthur 

In  this  introductory  Idyll  "we  meet  the  great  king  just  after  he  has  placed 
himself  upon  the  throne  and  founded  his  new  order  of  knighthood.  He  has 
been  summoned  by  a  neighboring  ruler,  Leodogran,  the  king  of  Cameliard,  to 
help  defend  that  suffering  country  against  the  ravages  of  the  "  beast  "  and 
the  incursions  of  the  Saxon  hordes.    King  Arthur  responds  to  the  appeal, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR  709 

slays  the  "  wild  dog,  and  wolf,  and  boar,  and  bear,"  drives  off  the  heathen 
invaders,  and  falls  in  love  with  Guinevere,  "  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth,"  the 
daughter  of  the  king.  Returning  to  his  own  land  he  finds  the  country  in 
tumult ;  for  the  "  barons  of  his  realm,  colleaguing  with  a  score  of  petty  kings," 
have  risen  in  rebellion  against  him.  With  the  aid  of  Sir  Lancelot,  however, 
his  best  loved  and  most  highly  honored  knight,  he  completely  overthrows  the 
rebels  —  among  them  Lot,  the  husband  of  Arthur's  reputed  half-sister, 
Bellicent.  Having  thus  overcome  his  foes,  Arthur  quickly  sends  "  the  bold 
Sir  Bedivere,  first  made  of  all  his  knights,"  to  King  Leodogran  — 

"Saying,  'If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee  well, 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife.'  "  ^ 

Before  giving  answer  to  the  suit,  Leodogran  seeks  to  learn  the  secret  of 
Arthur's  birth,  for  some  there  were  who  denied  his  right  to  the  title  of  king. 
Sir  Bedivere  tells  the  commonly  accepted  story  of  Arthur's  parentage, — 
that  he  is  the  son  of  King  Uther  and  his  "  winsome  wife  Ygerne,"  and  half- 
brother  of  — 

"Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent;" 
who  — 

"Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur." 

Still  the  old  king  hesitates.  But  happily  Queen  Bellicent  herself  comes  on  a 
visit  to  Cameliard,  bringing  with  her  two  of  her  sons,  the  light-hearted  and 
sunny-tempered,  though  irresponsible  and  somewhat  selfish  Gawain,  and  the 
sullen,  suspicious,  evil-hearted  Modred.  In  his  perplexity  Leodogran  asks 
her  to  reveal  what  she  knows  of  this  suitor  for  his  daughter's  hand.  Belli- 
cent, responding,  describes  the  impressive  scene  when  Arthur  ascended  the 
throne,  bound  his  knights  to  himself  by  solemn  vows  of  fealty,  and  so  founded 
the  Order  of  the  Table  Round.  She  tells  how  'the  coronation  ceremonies 
were  graced  by  the  old  mage  Merlin  ;  how  they  were  glorified  by  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake  (the  symbol  of  Religion  or  the  Church),  who  "  dwells  down  in  the 
deep,"  — 

"Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful;" 

how  near  the  new-crowned  King  there  stood  "  three  fair  queens  "  (thought 
to  symbolize  some  such  virtues  as  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity),  — 

"Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with  bright 
Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his  need." 

She  relates  how  there  was  borne  before  the  King  the  magic  sword  Excalibur, 
the  sword  — 

*  All  the  passages  quoted  in  Note  I  are  from  The  Coming  of  Arthur. 


7IO        NOTES  TO  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

"That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
And  Arthur  rowed  across  and  took  it  —  rich  ' 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye  —  the  blade  so  bright 
That  men  are  bUnded  by  it  —  on  one  side, 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this  world,  1 
'Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  ye  shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  yourself, 
'  Cast  me  away ! '    And  sad  was  Arthur's  face 
Taking  it,  but  old  MerUn  coimselled  him, 
'Take  thou  and  strike!  the  time  to  cast  away 
Is  yet  far-off.'     So  this  great  brand  the  King 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen  down." 

So  far  Leodogran  is  partly  reassured.  Yet  he  questions  still  further. 
Bellicent  is  "  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  "  ;  but  Arthur  is  "  fair  "  with  "  blue 
eyes,"  and  "  light  and  lustrous  curls."  How,  then,  can  he  be  her  brother  ? 
And  now  it  is  that  the  Queen  confides  to  King  Leodogran  a  secret  known  to 
no  other  mortal  than  herself  and  Merlin,  the  aged  wizard  of  King  Uther^s 
court.     But  first  she  motions  to  her  boys  to  pass  out  of  the  room.  — 

"And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and  followed  by  his  flying  hair 
Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw ; 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doors, 
And  there  half -heard  —  the  same  that  afterward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking  found  his  doom." 

Her  sons  withdrawn,  Queen  Bellicent  tells  her  secret  to  the  king  :  how 
she  had  been  brought  up  with  Arthur  and  had  regarded  him  as  [her  brother ; 
but  how  in  later  days  there  had  been  imparted  to  her  the  mystery  of  Arthur's 
coming  into  the  world.  For  on  the  night  when  King  Uther  lay  on  his  death- 
bed, "  moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,"  Merlin,  worn  out  with  attending 
his  djdng  master,  —  r 

"Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth  to  breathe," 

walked  by  the  shore  and  — 

"watched  the  great  sea  fall 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the  last, 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half  the  deep 
And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plimged 
Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a  flame : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame  was  borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's  feet,  _ 

Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and  cried,  'The  King! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther ! '    And  the  fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the  strand, 
Lashed  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the  word, 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  fire. 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed  in  fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  followed  calm,  ,j 

Free  sky  and  stars :  And  this  same  child. 
Is  he  who  reigns." 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR  711 

She  had  sought  to  learn  more  from  Merlin,  the  Queen  continues,  but  — 

"He  laughed  as  is  his  wont,  and  answered  me 
In  riddUng  triplets  of  old  time,  and  said :  — 

"  '  Rain,  sun,  and  rain !  and  the  free  blossom  blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun !  and  where  is  he  who  knows? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes.'  " 

Thus  it  came  about  that  old  King  Leodogran,  at  last  satisfied,  and 
strengthened  in  his  determination  by  a  certain  wondrous  dream,  sends  the 
bold  Sir  Bedivere  — 

"Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering  yea. 

"Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior  whom  he  loved 
And  honored  most,  Sir  Lancelot,  to  ride  forth 
And  bring  the  Queen,  and  watched  him  from  the  gates ; 
And  Lancelot  passed  away  among  the  flowers  — 
For  then  was  latter  April  — ■  and  returned 
Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with  Guinevere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high  saint, 
Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  before 
The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the  King 
That  morn  was  married ;  while  in  stainless  white, 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time, 
And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him,  his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his  joy." 

This,  then,  is  the  story  of  "  the  coming  "  and  the  marriage  of  Arthur. 
Great,  good,  noble-hearted,  he  realizes  his  mighty  mission  in  the  world.  He 
knows  that  Merlin  has  said  :  — 

"Tho'  man  may  wound  him  that  he  will  not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come ;  and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  imder  foot, 
TiU  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their  King." 

He  sets  himself  to  found  a  kingdom  in  accord  with  his  high  ideals.  Thus  far 
the  Romans  and  the  heathen  hordes  have  more  than  once  menaced  his  new 
realm,  but  his  heart  has  told  him  that  — 

"The  old  order  change th,  yielding  place  to  new. 

"And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a  space 
Were  all  one  will,  and  thro'  that  strength  the  King 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under  him, 
Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles  overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm  and  reigned." 

[Note  II.]     Persons  and  Places  of  the  Idylls 

In  Note  I,  the  story  of  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  we  have  already  called 
attention  to  :  — 


712  NOTES  TO  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 


I. 

King  Arthur, 

7. 

Sir  Lancelot, 

2. 

Queen  Guinevere, 

8. 

Sir  Bedivere, 

3. 

King  Lot  of  Orkney, 

9. 

King  Uther,  Arthur's  predecessor, 

4. 

Queen  Bellicent, 

10. 

Merlin,  the  magician. 

5- 

Sir  Gawain, 

II. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake, 

6. 

Sir  Modred, 

12. 

The  three  fair  queens, 

13.   King  Leodogran. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  additional  names,  some  knowledge  of  which  is 
necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  two  Idylls  included  in  the  text. 

1.  Pendragon,  "  the  dragon's  head,"  a  name  for  Uther,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  carry  with  him  a  golden  dragon  to  his  wars.  The  name  afterward 
descended  to  Arthur,  the  reputed  son  of  Uther.  The  symbol  was  suggested 
by  a  dragon-like  appearance  in  the  heavens,  seen  at  the  death  of  the  former 
king,  Aurelius,  brother  of  Uther. 

2.  Sir  Tristram.  A  noble  knight,  murdered  by  his  uncle,  the  wicked 
King  Mark  of  Cornwall.  In  the  Idylls  he  is  called  Mark's  "  cousin,"  but 
that  word  is  used  in  its  general  sense  of  kinsman.  Through  the  power  of  a 
magic  potion  Tristram  was  made  to  fall  in  love  with  Mark's  wife,  Iseult. 

3.  Sir  Geraint.  A  brave  and  noble  knight,  ever  loyal  to  Arthur,  and, 
finally,  killed  in  his  service.  He  was  the  husband  of  Enid,  and  is  the  chief 
character  in  two  of  the  most  charming  of  the  Idylls. 

4.  Sir  Galahad.  A  celebrated  knight,  called  "■  the  chaste,"  who  achieved 
the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail.  His  pure  and  unselfish  nature  made  him  the 
ideal  of  chivalry  as  well  as  an  exemplar  of  religion. 

5.  Sir  Percivale.  The  first  of  Arthur's  knights  to  learn  the  story  of  the 
Grail.  He  is  the  speaker  and  principal  character  in  the  Idyll  of  the  Holy 
Grail.  At  last  forced  to  abandon  his  quest  of  the  Grail,  for  which  by  nature 
he  was  all  unfit,  he  leaves  knighthood  and  enters  upon  a  monastic  life. 

6.  Sir  Gareth.  Son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent,  and  brother  of  Gawain  and 
Modred,  yet  of  much  finer  character  than  these  two  knights.  He  was  tall 
and  gracious  of  form.  From  his  large  and  shapely  hands  he  derived  the 
name  of  "  Beaumains,"  or  "  Fair  Hands." 

The  following  are  the  most  important  places  mentioned  in  our  two  Idylls. . 

1.  Lyonnesse.  A  fabulous  country,  formerly  adjacent  to  Cornwall, 
though  it  has  long  since  disappeared,  and  is  said  to  be  now  hundreds  of  feet 
under  water. 

2.  Camelot.  This  city  of  Arthur's  court  has  been  variously  located.  Ten- 
nyson has  left  the  following  account  :  "  On  the  latest  limit  of  the  West,  in  the 
land  of  Lyonnesse,  where,  save  the  rocky  isles  of  Scilly,  all  is  now  wild  sea, 
rose  the  sacred  Mount  of  Camelot.  It  rose  from  the  deeps  with  gardens  and 
bowers  and  palaces,  and  at  the  top  of  the  mount  was  King  Arthur's  hall,  and 
the  holy  minster  with  the  cross  of  gold.  The  mount  was  the  most  beautiful 
in  the  world,  sometimes  green  and  fresh  in  the  beam  of  morning,  sometimes 
all  one  splendor,  folded  in  the  golden  mists  of  the  West.     But  all  underneath 


TIME  OCCUPIED  BY  THE  IDYLLS  713 

was  hollow,  and  the  mountain  trembled,  when  all  the  seas  rushed  bellowing 
through  the  porphyry  caves;  and  there  ran  a  prophecy  that  the  mountam  and 
the  city  on  some  wild  morning  would  tumble  into  the  abyss  and  be  no  more." 

3.  Avilion.  A  mythical  Isle  of  the  Blessed  famed  in  Celtic  story,  situ- 
ated far  in  the  western  ocean.  In  this  terrestrial  paradise  Arthur  and  other 
Celtic  heroes  are  supposed  to  live  forever. 

4.  Caerleon.  On  the  river  Usk  in  Wales,  one  of  the  most  important  resi- 
dences of  Arthur  and  his  court. 

5.  Caerlyle.  Carlisle  in  Cumberland,  which  like  Caerleon  was  frequently 
the  scene  of  knightly  tournaments. 

6.  Almesbury.  A  convent  of  the  Benedictine  nuns,  situated  in  Wiltshire, 
not  far  from  Salisbury.  Thither  Guinevere  withdrew  when  her  guilty  love 
for  Lancelot  had  been  discovered  by  the  king. 

7.  Badon  hill.  Probably  Badbury  Hill  in  Dorsetshire  ;  the  battlefield  on 
which  the  Britons  under  Arthur  are  said  to  have  checked  for  a  time  the  ad- 
vance of  the  West  Saxons  (about  520  a.d.). 

8.  Battlefields  of  Arthur.  The  "  twelve  great  battles  "  (see  end  of  Note 
I)  in  which  Arthur  overthrew  the  heathen  were,  in  order  of  occurrence,  at 
the  following  places  :  i.  Glem  (Lincolnshire  or  Northumberland);  2,  3,  4,  5. 
Duglas  (a  small  stream  in  Britain);  6.  Bassa  (a  rock  in  the  Firth  of  Forth) ; 
7.  Celidon  (the  Caledonian  forest);  8.  Gurnion  Castle  (in  Norfolk);  9. 
Legion  (the  city  of  Exeter);  10.  Trafh  Treroit  (a  river  in  Lancashire);  11. 
Bregiiain  (a  mountain  in  Northern  England);  12.  Badon  (the  place  of  final 
victory.     See  note  7  above). 

9.  Astolat.     The  home  of  Elaine.    Supposed  to  be  at  Guilford  in  Surrey. 

[Note  III.]     Time  Occupied  by  the  Idylls 

Modified  from  Maccallum's  Tennyson^s  Idylls  and  Arthurian  Story. 

The  reign  of  Arthur  may  be  supposed  to  have  lasted  twelve  years.  The 
order  of  its  events  is  recorded  in  the  Idylls  as  follows  :  — 

Idyll.  Chief  Events. 

I  St  Year.       I.  The  Coming  of  Arthur.  Coronation.     Founding    of     Round 

Table.  Crushing  of  Rebellion. 
Marriage  to  Guinevere.  Wars 
with  the  Heathen  and  with 
Rome. 

2d  Year.  First    of    the     Diamond    Toiuna- 

ments. 

3d  Year.  

4th  Year,  

Sth  Year.      II.  i.  Gareth  and  Lynette  (?).      Adventures    of    Gareth.    Tristram 

knighted. 

6th  Year.  2.  Marriage  of  Geraint  (?).     Adventures  of  Geraint. 

7th  Year.  3.  Geraint  and  Enid  (?).        "Geraint  in  the  waste  land." 


714 


NOTES   TO  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 


Idyll. 

Chief  Events. 

8th  Year. 

4.  Baiin  and  Balan  (?). 

Love  between  Lancelot  and  Guin- 
evere becomes  guilty. 

gth  Year. 

5.  Merlin  and  Vivien  (?). 

Betrayal  of  Merlin  by  Vivien.  (See 
note,  Eve  of  St.  A  gnes,  171.) 

loth  Year. 

6.  Lancelot  and  Elaine. 

Last  of  the  Diamond  Tourna- 
ments. 

nth  Year. 

7.  The  Holy  Grail. 

Quest  of  the  Grail. 

12th  Year. 


8.  PeUeas  and  Ettarre. 
g.  The  Last  Tournament. 


Discovery  by  Arthur  of  the  Queen's 
unfaithfulness.     Tristram       slain 
by  Mark. 
(An  interval  of  several  weeks.) 
10.  Guinevere.  Last     interview      between     Arthur 

and  the  Queen. 
III.  The  Passing  of  Arthur.      Arthur's    march,    last    battle,    and 


[Note  IV.]     Poetical  Nature  and  Form  of  the  Idylls 

There  has  been  much  discussion  among  the  critics  as  to  whether  the  Idylls 
of  the  King  may  properly  be  considered  an  epic.  It  is  certainly  true  that  this 
production  is  not  an  epic  in  the  sense  in  which  the  term  is  applied  to  the 
Iliadf  or  the  Mneid,  or  Paradise  Lost,  —  poems  characterized  by  continuity 
of  narrative  and  unity  of  action.  In  a  certain  sense,  though  carrying  out  and 
developing  a  central  theme,  Tennyson's  Idylls  form  not  one  poem,  but 
twelve.  As  a  whole,  the  production  has  epical  quality,  and  may  be  charac- 
terized as  an  episodical  or  idyllic  epic.     (See  Introduction,  §  31,  7.) 

The  metrical  form  of  the  Idylls  is  blank  verse,  —  a  blank  verse  finer  than 
anything  of  its  kind  since  Milton.  The  lines  are  not  arbitrarily  or  mechani- 
cally formed.  With  the  instinct  of  a  true  artist  the  poet  constantly  varies  the 
cadence  to  suit  the  theme  in  hand.  It  will  prove  an  extremely  profitable 
study  to  examine  the  metre  of  many  lines  and  paragraphs,  to  note  the  pauses, 
the  substitutions  of  feet,  the  sequence  of  tones,  and  the  harmonic  relation 
between  sound  and  sense.     (See  Introduction,  §§  20,  i,  2,  4 ;  21.) 

LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE 

1-157.  2.  Astolat  :  see  Note  II  ^  {Persons  and  Places  of  the  Idylls).  4. 
sacred  shield.  The  Idyll  opens  in  the  middle  of  the  action.  Lancelot  has 
left  his  famous  shield  in  care  of  the  '  lily  maid,'  and  she  is  guarding  it  as  a 
sacred  trust.  This  story  of  Elaine,  in  her  world  of  dreams  and  fancies,  should 
be  compared  with  that  of  the  Lady  of  Shalott  —  Tennyson's  first  version  of 
this  theme.  10.  their  own  tinct,  the  tint  or  color  of  the  armorial  devices 
with  which  the  shield  was  embellished.  See  blazon  in  Diet,  of  her  wit, 
according  to  her  own  fancy.  22,  23.  Caerlyle,  Caerleon,  Camelot  :  see 
Note  II.  31.  diamond  jousts  :  see  Note  HI  for  time  of  these  jousts.  35. 
Lyonnesse  :  see  Note  II.  36.  tarn :  small  mountain  lake.  46.  aside,  on 
1  The  reference  is  to  the  "  general  notes  "  preceding. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE  715 

each  side.  50.  nape,  of  the  neck.  53.  shingly  :  gravelly,  scaur,  a  pre- 
cipitous bank  or  rock.  69.  Queen,  Guinevere,  with  whom  Lancelot  was 
secretly  in  love.  76.  this  world's  hugest.  It  is  not  certain  which  of  Arthur's 
courts  was  near  London.  91.  tale  :  see  note  on  L' Allegro  (67).  94.  lets, 
keeps.  118.  devoir,  devotion.  125.  untruth,  her  unfaithfulness  to  her  hus- 
band. 134.  The  low  sun  makes  the  color.  Explain  this  metaphor  and 
show  how  it  applies  to  a  Lancelot  rather  than  to  an  Arthur. 

158-396.  162.  downs,  tracts  of  sandy  rolling  land  near  the  sea.  171. 
wordless  man.  This  character  is  original  with  Tennyson.  177-179.  Some 
.  .  .  them.  Note  the  naturalness  of  the  picture.  188.  What  .  .  .  shield. 
His  shield,  which  he  has  thoughtlessly  brought,  is  known.  201.  Allow  him, 
excuse  his  seeming  rudeness.  246.  Had  marred  his  face.  In  what  way  may 
we  imagine  Lancelot's  sin  to  have  left  its  mark  upon  him  ?  252.  living  soul, 
with  conscience  active.  263.  smaller  time,  such  as  the  present  day.  269. 
glanced  at,  alluded  to.  279.  Badon  hill  :  see  Note  II.  287.  Glem.  For 
this  and  the  proper  names  of  the  lines  following,  see  Battlefields  of  Arthur, 
Note  11.  293.  cuirass,  a  leather  breastplate  upon  which  Arthur  had  borne 
in  this  battle  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  295.  lightened,  flashed.  297. 
white  Horse,  the  emblem  of  the  Saxons.  338.  rathe  :  see  note  on  Lycidas 
(142).  366.  who  know,  i.e.  who  know  this  custom  of  Lancelot.  382. 
twice.     What  were  they  ?     396.  so  lived  in  fantasy  :  see  1.  27. 

397-522.  406-407.  The  green  light  .  .  .  roofs.  The  green  light  from 
the  meadows  below  were  reflected  on  the  chalky  ceiling  of  the  cave.  422. 
Pendragon  :  see  Note  II.  The  boy  is  realizing  his  life's  dream.  He  has 
seen  '  one  '  —  Lancelot ;  he  expects,  in  the  tournament,  to  see  the  *  other  ' 
—  Arthur,  of  mysterious  birth.  429.  like  a  rainbow.  What  gave  the 
*  peopled  gallery '  this  appearance  ?  434-440.  And  from  .  .  .  work. 
Describe  this  carving,  and  explain  *  ease  '  and  *  tender.'  442.  nameless 
king  :  see  1.  45.  446.  crescent,  in  its  radical  sense  from  Lat.  crescere,  to 
increase  ;  hence  growing,  as  in  strength  and  valor.  447.  overcome,  overtop. 
450.  the  man,  Arthur.  453.  held  the  lists,  received  the  attack.  480.  bare, 
bore.  Notice  the  force  of  the  simile  which  follows.  507.  poplar  grove,  near 
the  hermit's  cave.     See  1.  409. 

523-739.  535.  Gawain  :  see  Note  I.  547.  carven  flower  :  see  11.  441- 
442.  554-555-  Tristram,  Geraint,  Gareth  :  see  Note  II.  555.  there- 
withal, nevertheless.  583-585.  Our  .  .  .  glory  :  see  11.  151-153.  But  who 
spoke  these  words  ?  595.  this,  i.e.  this  is  ill  news.  653.  hem  :  see  Diet. 
707,  713-  courtesy,  obedience.  Gawain,  the  courteous  and  easy-going,  has 
angered  the  King.  In  Arthur's  mind  '  obedience  '  and  not '  courtesy  '  is  the 
one  true  law.  715.  strokes  of  the  blood,  heart  beats.  728.  Marred  .  .  . 
aim,  disconcerted  the  '  old  dame.' 

740-981.  771.  I  mean  nothing.  What  does  he  mean  ?  800.  casque  : 
helmet.  844.  twilight,  half  light ;  thus  referring  to  morning  as  well  as  to 
evening.  857.  simples,  medicinal  herbs.  870.  straitened,  restricted, 
held  fast.    877-  one  face,  of  the  queen.    883.  rough  sickness  :  of.  11.  846- 


7l6  NOTES  TO  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

850.  898.  burthen,  as  in  the  phrase  "  the  burden  of  a  song."  923.  that 
.  .  .  yours.  It  is  due  to  you  that  I  am  alive  to  hear  your  request.  953. 
realm  beyond  the  seas.  Malory  says  in  his  Morte  Darthur  :  "  But  to  say 
the  sooth,  Sir  Lancelot  and  his  nephews  were  lords  of  all  France,  and  of  all 
the  lands  that  belonged  unto  France."  969.  against  me,  against  my  nature. 
977.  tact,  sense  or  feeling. 

982 '1154.  995.  sallow-rifted.  Explain.  997.  a  little  song.  The  songs 
in  Tennyson's  narratives  (some  of  them  among  his  best  lyrics)  always  exqui- 
sitely suggest  the  mood  of  the  story.  Compare  the  songs  in  Gareth  and 
Lynette  and  in  the  Princess.  1015.  Phantom  of  the  house.  The  voice  of 
the  half-crazed  girl,  heard  at  '  the  blood-red  light  of  dawn,'  is  mistaken  by 
the  brothers  for  the  "  banshee  "  of  the  house,  —  a  supernatural  being  sup- 
posed to  warn  a  family  of  the  approaching  death  of  one  of  its  members,  by 
wailing  or  singing,  in  a  mournful  voice,  under  the  windows.  1068.  Seeing 
.  .  .  fault  :  see  note  on  Lady  of  Shalott  (77).     1092.  ghostly  man,  priest. 

1155-1418.  1 1 58.  hard,  hardly.  Distinguish  between  these  words. 
1168.  vibrate,  betraying  her  secret  agitation.  11 70.  oriel,  a  sort  of  bay 
window,  summer  side,  the  side  most  exposed  to  the  sun  ;  i.e.  the  south. 
1178.  cygnet.  The  cygnet,  or  young  swan,  is  not  white,  as  is  the  full-grown 
bird.  1206.  your  own,  i.e.  your  own  worth.  1229.  Diamonds  to  meet 
them.  Were  these  reflections  in  the  water,  or  drops  of  water  splashing  up  ? 
1253.  girt,  surrounded.  1256,  1257.  Sir  Percivale,  Sir  Galahad  :  see 
Note  II.  1259-1261.  Then  came  .  .  .  her  :  see  11.  1047-1052.  1260. 
mused,  asin  the  LoJy  o/5/fa/o//  (168).  1265.  sometime,  once.  1299.  Sea 
was  her  wrath.  Explain  the  metaphor.  13 16.  worship,  credit  or  honor. 
1319.  shrine.  Could  this  be  Westminster  Abbey,  as  some  critics  have  sug- 
gested ?  1346.  affiance,  confidence.  i354-  homeless,  lonely.  1368.  Could 
bind,  if  mere  deserving  could  compel  love.  1386.  '  Jealousy  in  love  ?  ' 
see  1.  1340.  1393-  Lady  of  the  Lake  :  see  Note  I.  1399.  king's  son. 
Lancelot  was  the  son  of  Ban,  a  Celtic  king  who  had  aided  Arthur  in  his  early 
wars.  1415.  forgotten  mere  :  seel.  1400.  141 8.  holy  man.  After  Arthur's 
death,  Lancelot  sought  the  queen,  who  had  withdrawn  to  the  convent  at 
Almesbury.  The  repentant  Guinevere  made  him  promise  to  leave  her  for- 
ever ;  and  this  he  did,  retiring  to  the  hermitage  "  where  dwelt  the  Bishop  of 
Canterbury  and  the  knight.  Sir  Bedivere."  In  the  words  of  Malory,  Book 
XVI,  ch.  V  :  "  God  knoweth  his  thought  and  his  unstableness  ;  and  yet 
shall  he  die  right  an  holy  man." 

THE  PASSING   OF   ARTHUR 

1-169.  The  greater  part  of  this  poem  was  published  in  1842,  under  the 
title  of  Morte  d' Arthur.  To  this  early  version  were  afterwards  prefixed  one 
hundred  and  sixty-nine  lines,  and  to  the  end  were  added  twenty-nine.  Thus 
we  have  the  Idyll  in  its  present  form,  —  published  as  The  Passing  of  Arthur 
in  1869.  I.  Sir  Bedivere  :  see  Note  I  (on  the  story  of  The  Coming  of 
Arthur).    6.  their  march.    Arthur  is  marching  westward  to  attack  the 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR  717 

traitor  Modred,  who  has  leagued  himself  against  the  King,  with  many  of 
Arthur's  former  knights,  and  with  '  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea.'  9. 
Him,  God.  Explain  Arthur's  mood  of  hopelessness,  despair,  almost  of  doubt. 
18.  Or  else.  In  what  ways  does  Arthur  try  to  account  for  God's  apparent 
desertion  of  him  ?  26.  reels  back  into  the  beast,  lapsing  into  the  barbarism 
from  which  he  had  raised  it,  28.  Nay  ...  die  :  see  Note  I.  30.  Gawain  : 
see  Note  I.  31.  Lancelot's  war.  After  the  discovery  of  Lancelot's 
treachery,  the  King  made  war  against  him.  Gawain,  aiding  Arthur,  re- 
ceived a  mortal  wound  at  the  hands  of  Lancelot.  35.  isle  of  rest  :  see 
Avilion,  in  Note  II.  56.  Light  was  Gawain  in  life.  For  Sir  Gawain's 
character,  see  Note  I,  and  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  1.  552,  and  following.  59. 
Modred  :  see  Note  I,  and  note  to  1.  6,  above.  68-69.  And  brake  .  .  .  will  : 
see  Note  I.  77.  One  .  .  .  Almesbury  :  see  Note  II.  The  reference  is  to 
Guinevere,  — 

"And  while  she  grovelled  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er  her  neck, 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest." 

Guinevere  (577-580). 

81.  Lyonnesse  :  see  Note  II.  90-91.  that  day  .  .  .  year.  What  day 
must  this  have  been  ?  117.  voices  of  the  dead.  Explain.  The  description 
of  tins  battle  is  weird  but  splendid.  Contrast  with  the  picture  of  the  silent 
battlefield  in  the  lines  following.  135.  voice,  the  sound  of  the  ocean  ; 
referred  to  again  in  11.  139-141.  148.  so,  if.  160.  purport,  the  ideals  for 
which  it  has  existed.  161.  quick,  as  in  the  Biblical  expression,  "  the  quick 
and  the  dead."     See  Did.     168.  Excalibur  :  see  Note  I. 

170-440.  These  were  the  lines  which  originally  formed  the  poem  Morte 
d* Arthur.  177.  chancel  :  see  Diet.  180.  a  great  water.  What  was  this? 
182.  unsolders,  breaks  apart.  189.  Camelot  :  see  Note  II.  191.  Merlin: 
see  Note  I.  198,  199.  Rose  .  .  .  lake.  Clothed  .  .  ,  wonderful  :  see  these 
lines  in  Note  I.  206.  lightly,  quickly.  224.  haft  :  see  Diet.  Also  see 
description  of  this  brand  in  Note  I.  228.  This  .  .  .  mind,  a  line  taken 
from  the  JEneid.  248.  lief,  beloved.  262.  obedience  .  .  .  rule  :  see  note 
on  Lancelot  and  Elaine  (707,  713).  Why  was  Bedivere  so  loath  to  throw  the 
sword  away  ?  272.  maiden  of  the  Lake  :  see  Note  I.  284-285.  I  heard 
.  .  .  reeds  :  ef.  11.  238-239.  These  repetitions  are  similar  to  those  found  in 
the  epics  of  Homer.  Malory  uses  them  as  well  as  Tennyson.  289.  Authority 
.  .  .  king,  i.e.  the  king  loses  his  authority,  307.  northern  mom,  the 
Aurora  Borealis.  308.  isles  of  winter,  icebergs.  312.  Clothed  ,  .  .  won- 
derful:  cf.\.  199  and  note.  337.  blue  eyes:  see  Note  I.  350.  Clothed  .  .  . 
breath,  the  vapor  of  his  breath,  condensed  in  the  cold  air,  366.  Three 
Queens  :  see  11.  452-456  ;  also  Note  I.  377.  casque  :  helmet.  383. 
greaves  and  cuisses  :  see  Diet.  384.  light  and  lustrous  curls  :  see  Note  I. 
401.  Holy  Elders,  the  three  "  wise  men  of  the  East."    See  Matthew  ii.  1-12. 


7l8  NOTES  TO  ROSSETTI 

403.  image  .  .  .  world.  According  to  Malory,  the  Round  Table  was  in- 
tended to  typify  "  the  roundness  of  the  world."  408.  The  old  .  .  .  new  : 
see  this  line  in  Note  I.  427.  Avilion  :  see  Note  II.  434-435.  swan  .  .  . 
carol  :  see  note  on  Rape  of  the  Lock  (262-263). 

441-469.  These  lines  were  added  for  the  volume  of  1870  as  a  conclusion 
to  the  Idylls.  445.  From  .  .  .  goes  :  see  this  line  in  Merlin's  '  riddling 
triplets,'  Note  I.  469.  And  .  .  .  year.  Notice  the  quiet  ending,  producing 
the  effect,  "  all  passion  spent,"  suitable  to  the  close  of  the  epic  poem. 

ROSSETTI 

The  Blessed  Damozel.^  Rossetti  was  early  impressed  with  Poe's  The 
Raven  (first  published  in  the  New  York  Evening  Mirror,  January  29,  1845). 
"  I  saw,"  he  said  years  later,  "  that  Poe  had  done  the  utmost  it  was  possible 
to  do  with  the  grief  of  the  lover  on  earth,  and  so  I  determined  to  reverse  the 
conditions,  and  give  utterance  to  the  yearning  of  the  loved  one  in  heaven." 
The  result,  written  before  the  poet's  nineteenth  birthday,  was  The  Blessed 
Damozel,  his  best  known  and  most  typical  poem.  It  was  printed  originally  in 
the  second  number  (February,  1850)  of  The  Germ,  the  short-hved  journal  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  (see  the  account  in  our  text,  pp.  422-424) ; 
but  in  successive  editions  many  changes  were  made,  for  Rossetti  was  a  fas- 
tidious writer,  always  reluctant  to  put  aside  the  file.  —  The  poem  reads  like 
a  dreamy  improvisation,  and  with  its  enchanting  harmonies,  its  pellucid 
diction,  its  sensuous  mystery,  pictorial  magnificence,  and  medieval  setWg 
it  is  a  beautiful  symbol  of  romance  at  its  best.  "  Of  the  true  romantic 
feeling,  the  ever-present  apprehension  of  the  spiritual  world  and  of  the 
struggle  of  the  soul  with  earthly  conditions  .  .  .,  Rossetti's  poetry  is  as  full 
as  his  pictures."  With  this  poem  should  be  read,  as  belonging  to  the  same 
land  of  dreams,  Coleridge's  Christahel  and  Kubla  Khan,  Keats's  La  Belle 
Dame  sans  Merci  and  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  Poe's  Ulalume  and  The  Raven. 

The  poem  is  a  vision  of  a  maiden  in  heaven  (hence,  the  Blessed  Damo- 
zel), of  her  longing  for  him  whom  she  loves,  who  is  yet  on  the  earth,  and  of 
her  anticipation  of  their  meeting  in  "  the  deep  wells  of  light  .  .  .  there  in 
God's  sight."  The  lover,  imaginatively,  tells  the  vision,  and  his  comments 
are  placed  in  parentheses,  i.  damozel.  Archaic  for  damsel;  derived, 
through  the  French,  demoiselle,  from  dominicella,  the  diminutive  of  domina 
(cf.  domus,  house),  a  lady  ;  cf.  dame.  2.  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven.  The  bar 
along  the  rampart  of  God's  house  (1.  25  ;  cf.  1. 142).  The  picture  of  her  abode 
is  in  the  same  romantic  spirit  as  11.  69-70  of  Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale  : 
"  Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam  Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery 
lands  forlorn,"  but  it  has  also,  as  has  the  entire  poem,  a  reminiscence  of 
Dante's    Paradiso.    5-6.     Why    three  ?  why    seven  ?     10.  meetly,    fitly, 

^  For  the  remaining  poems  of  this  book  only  comparatively  brief  notes  are 
necessary.  Still  further  to  save  space,  the  title  of  each  of  these  remaining  poems 
will  be  found  as  here  printed,  instead  of  being  given  a  separate  line  as  heretofore. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE  719 

befittingly.  Note  the  poetic  superiority  of  meetly.  Explain.  34.  sets 
apace,  fast  declines.  28.  The  depth  which  is  the  beginning  of  Space. 
34.  ridge.  A  good  example  of  poetic  vision.  Can  you  see  the  picture  ? 
36.  midge,  gnat.  76.  wells  of  light,  wells  of  heavenly  radiance.  86-87. 
The  '  mystic  tree '  seems  to  be  a  reference  to  the  tree  of  life  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden  ;  the  Dove  is  the  symbol  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  97-102.  This 
stanza,  with  its  beautiful  tribute  from  the  lover  to  the  Blessed  Damozel, 
appeared  first  in  the  text  published  after  the  death  of  Rossetti's  wife. 
107-108.  Saintsbury  speaks  of  these  verses  as  "  consummate  triumphs 
of  the  word-music  brought  by  Tennyson  into  English  poetry.  Indeed 
this  couplet  of  names  might  be  made  a  sort  of  text  to  expound  the 
great  appeal  to  the  ear  of  this  kind  of  poetry,  which  any  one  who  is  deaf 
to  the  exceptional  and  golden  harmony  of  the  arrangement  need  never 
hope  to  appreciate."  Try  the  effect  of  rearranging  the  names.  114.  Cf. 
Adonais  (11.  1-19).      126.  citherns  and  citoles.     See  Did. 

Note  the  ballad-quality  of  the  stanza  in  which  the  poem  is  cast  ;  cf.  the 
six-line  stanzas  of  The  Aficient  Mariner  and  remarks  thereon  in  introduction 
to  notes  on  Coleridge.  37-40.  These  lines  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  the 
edition  published  after  the  death  of  the  poet's  wife.  44.  circling  charm. 
Referring  to  the  "  lovers,  newly  met."  45-48.  Some  critics  have  objected 
to  these  and  other  details  of  sensuous  description  ;  others  defend  them  as 
not  only  appropriate  to  the  conception  but  exquisite  and  tender.  What  is 
your  opinion  ?  53-54.  Referring  to  the  Pythagorean  fancy  that  the 
movement  of  the  heavenly  bodies  produces  a  music  imperceptible  to  hmnan 
ears.  Her  voice,  the  passage  means,  was  as  sweet  as  this  music.  55-57. 
Another  example  of  poetic  vision  ;  so  also,  above,  11.  41-42.  6i-66.  Is 
not  her  voice  heard  in  all  beautiful  sounds  ?  Cf.  Adonais  (II.  28-30).  66. 
stair.  Probably  the  musical  notes  as  they  drop  from  the  bell-tower,  forming, 
as  it  were,  an  echoing  stair.  73.  aureole.  Here,  as  in  early  pictures,  a 
gold  disk  surrounding  the  head  and  worn  by  those  who  have  won  the  victory 
over  the  world,  the  flesh,  or  the  devil.  It  represents  the  glory  emanating 
from  the  redeemed  spirit. 

MORRIS 

The  Earthly  Paradise,  a  masterpiece  in  three  volumes  (1868-1870),  "  is  a 
series  of  twenty-four  tales  in  verse,  two  for  each  month  of  the  year.  They 
are  bound  together,  in  imitation  of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  by  a  con- 
necting link  which  forms  the  subject  of  the  prologue."  According  to  the 
prologue,  not  reproduced  in  the  present  volume,  "  a  company  of  wanderers 
driven  from  their  Scandinavian  home  by  the  great  pestilence  which  over- 
spread Europe  in  the  fourteenth  century,  after  long  journeys  in  search  of  the 
fabled  earthly  paradise,  come  '  shrivelled,  bent,  and  grey,'  to  a  nameless 
city  in  a  distant  sea,  where  Hellenic  civilization  and  culture  have  been  pre- 
served. Here  they  find  rest  and  hospitality,  and  twice  a  month  they  and 
their  hosts  meet  at  a  solemn  feast,  at  which  a  story  is  related.    Twelve  of 


720  NOTES  TO  MORRIS 

the  stories,  told  by  elders  of  the  city,  come  from  classical  sources  ;  the 
other  twelve  [of  which  The  Writing  on  the  Image  is  one],  told  by  the  wanderers, 
are  derived  chiefly  from  medieval  Latin,  French,  and  Icelandic  originals, 
with  gleanings  from  Mandeville  and  the  Arabian  Nights''  {Cambridge 
Hist.  Engl.  Lit.,  XIII,  138).  We  have  given  in  the  text  the  Apology  with 
which  Morris  opens  his  Earthly  Paradise,  and  the  tenth  story  of  the 
series. 

An  Apology.  State  the  substance  of  this  modest  apology  and  then 
explain  the  significance  of  the  title  The  Earthly  Paradise..  What  in  your 
opinion  is  th^  value  to  the  world  of  such  a  purpose  and  such  a  work  as  are 
mentioned  here  ?  Morris's  beautiful  poem,  The  Message  of  the  March  Wind, 
suggests  an  answer  to  this  question.  7.  The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 
Meaning  of  idle,  empty  ?  22-23.  Do  you  think  the  sentiment  unmanly  ? 
Do  you  suppose  that,  after  all,  such  *  idle  singing '  as  this  of  The  Earthly 
Paradise  may  very  definitely  help  '  to  set  the  crooked  straight '  ?  This 
description  of  himself  is  by  no  means  accurate  :  it  is  simply  an  overstate- 
ment of  the  great  sympathy  he  had  for  beauty  in  romance.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  he  tried  to  set  the  crooked  straight  in  more  ways  than  one.  He  was 
a  reformer  of  decorative  arts  and  English  taste  in  regard  to  them,  and  he  was 
one  of  the  most  reasonable  and  devoted  socialists  of  his  day.  24.  my 
murmuring  rhyme.  Why  is  this  an  appropriate  way  of  speaking  of  the 
verse  of  the  Apology  and  the  next  selection  ?  What,  do  you  gather,  is  the 
author's  estimate  of  the  poetic  quality  of  his  work  ?  See  the  following  lines. 
25.  ivory  gate.  Whence  issue  dreams  that  delude  mortals.  See  CI.  M., 
p.  54.  In  what  sense  is  the  allusion  to  be  understood  ?  Cf.  '  shadowy 
isle '  (38).  26.  importunate.  See  Diet.  27.  sleepy  region.  Interpret. 
29-35.  The  comparison  makes  clearer  what  the  poet  has  already  said. 
39.  steely,  cold,  without  compassion.  In  reference,  by  metonymy,  to  the 
world  of  commerce  and  industry?  41.  Whose  ravening  monsters.  The 
iniquities  of  modern  life  must  be  '  slain '  by  mightier  men  than  '  the  poor 
singer  of  an  empty  day.'  —  The  stanza  in  which  the  Apology  is  written 
—  the  Chaucerian  seven-line  stanza  or  rhyme  royal  —  was  much  affected 
by  Morris.     See  Introduction,  §24,  4;  for  Metrical  Romance,  §31,  4. 

The  Writing  on  the  Image.  The  Writing  on  the  Image  is  an  example 
of  Morris's  virile,  rapid,  almost  breathless  style  of  narrative.  It  does  not, 
however,  give  one  an  adequate  idea  of  the  worship  of  the  beauty  of  form, 
color,  and  tone  that  is  evident  in  most  of  the  romances.  The  interest  in 
medievalism  is  of  course  manifest.  It  has  been  said  of  Morris  that  "  his 
poetry  deals,  it  is  true,  with  the  human  passions,  but  the  emotion  is  always 
seen  as  in  a  picture."  Do  you  find  in  this  poem  any  justification  of  this 
criticism  ?  4.  cornel  wood.  A  hardwood  tree.  46.  mocked.  Modifies 
*  he '  (44).  80.  marl,  clayey  soil.  95.  See  above,  1.  44.  105.  look, 
expect.  143.  nothing  knew,  he  did  not  know  at  all.  199.  meet,  fit.  244. 
recked  of,  took  account  of.  267.  "Wage,  pay.  An  obsolete  use  ;  also 
provincial  in  England.     274.  stack.     An  obsolete  past  tense  of  *  stick.' 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE  721 


SWINBURNE 

The  Making  of  Man.  Our  selection,  to  which  we  have  given  its  present 
title,  is  the  second  choral  song  in  the  drama  Atalanta  in  Calydon  (1865). 
This  tragedy,  written  after  the  model  of  ancient  Greek  tragedy,  pervaded 
by  a  fatalism  even  more  desperate  than  that  of  its  models,  and  cast  in  "  a 
new  kind  of  blank  verse,  which  had  the  classical  dignity  with  a  romantic 
exuberance  of  sound  and  color,"  was  the  poem  that  first  made  Swinburne 
famous.  The  original  story,  illustrated  by  extracts  from  Swinburne's 
Atalanta,  may  be  found  in  CI.  M.,  pp.  237-241.  This  chorus  describes  the 
tragic  complexity  of  man's  nature  and  existence.  Note  the  hne  of  three 
accents,  iambic-anapaestic  in  movement,  varied  by  truncated  lines  and 
hypercatalectic  endings  (see  Introduction,  §  20,  1,4).  One  can  easily 
realize  that  in  comparison  with  previous  poems  in  this  book  Swinburne's 
music  has  something  new,  —  a  luxurious  sonority,  a  sensuously  intricate 
melody,  along  with  a  constant  temptation  to  elevate  pleasurable  sound 
above  meaning.  1-3.  Since  it  is  man  who  reckons  time  by  years.  Time 
comes  to  the  birth  of  man  before  the  beginning  of  years,  man,  mankind. 
Why  '  a  gift  of  tears '  ?  4.  glass  that  ran.  This  may  refer  to  her  glass  of 
sorrows  —  so  full  that  it  overflowed  ;  or  to  an  hour-glass,  which  marks  the 
passing  of  all  things,  even  sorrows.  5.  leaven.  How  is  pain  pleasure's 
leaven  ?  Note  the  tragic  contrasts  in  this  and  the  following  lines.  34.  In 
what  sense  are  eyesight  and  speech  the  '  veils  of  the  soul '  ?  35,  36.  time, 
time.     Objects  of  wrought,  1.  s$.     38.  space,  a  measure  of  time. 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine.  Published  in  Poems  and  Ballads,  1866. 
This  poem,  probably  the  best  known  of  Swinburne's  shorter  pieces,  must 
not  be  thought  of  as  an  attempt  to  present  or  justify  an  idea  or  a  philosophy 
of  life.  It  is,  instead,  the  expression  of  a  mood,  —  the  mood  that  envelops 
us  when  the  body  grows  tired  and  the  spirit  weak  from  too  much  grappling 
with  problems  or  '  too  much  love  of  living,'  and  the  mind  is  "  half  in  love 
with  easeful  Death,"  calling  him  "  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme." 
It  is  the  mood  that  longs  for  forgetfulness,  to  drink  of  Lethe  and  eat  of  the 
lotus.  In  the  first  stanza  the  poet  creates  for  this  mood  a  place  where  the 
world's  troubles  seem  not  to  reach  save  as  '  spent  waves'  riot,'  Then,  gather- 
ing all  the  epithets  of  physical  weariness  and  spiritual  lassitude,  he  elaborates 
his  Garden  of  Proserpine  from  the  classical  myth  of  the  meads  of  Asphodel, 
"  studded  with  futile  bushes  and  pale-flowered  weeds,  where  wander  the 
shades  "  (see  CI.  M.,  p.  49).  By  insensible  degrees,  by  the  entrancing  music 
of  his  cadences  and  luscious  repetition  of  double  rhymes  and  subtle  asso- 
nances within  the  line,  he  deepens  the  soothing  effect  of  languorous  quiet 
and  aimless  dreaming  until  the  wan  lips  of  Proserpine  seem  sweeter  than 
love's  and  the  tired  heart  sinks  with  a  sigh  of  relief  into  *  sleep  eternal  In 
an  eternal  night.'  —  For  a  poem  of  similar  mood,  see  Tennyson's  The  Lotus 
Eaters  ;  for  a  different  interpretation  of  Proserpine  see  G.  E.  Woodberry's 
Proserpine  (quoted  in  part  in  CI.  M.,  pp.  163-164) ;  for  the  attributes  and 

3A 


722  NOTES  TO  DOBSON 

myth  of  Proserpine  see  CI.  Diet,  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  44,  53,  159-164  ;  for  the 
Greek  underworld  of  shadows,  where  buds  are  barren  and  nothmg  comes  to 
fruit,  CL  M.y  pp.  47-50.  The  natural  and  healthy  contrast  to  the  mood  of 
this  poem  is  found  in  Browning's  optimism  and  praise  of  heroic  action,  or 
in  Meredith's  faith  in  a  beneficent  plan  of  life,  sufi&cient,  as  he  thinks,  to 
the  universal  purpose  of  the  Master-Mind  even  if  man  be  not  assured  of  a 
future  existence. 

Swinburne's  unexcelled  power  of  rhythmic  composition  is  well  illustrated 
in  these  verses,  and  since  the  object  here  is  the  depicting  of  a  mood  rather 
than  the  development  of  an  idea  the  poem  does  not  suffer  from  the  defect 
of  Swinburne's  excellence,  a  slighting  of  thought  for  melody,  cadence,  and 
harmony.  Of  the  effect  of  the  rhymes  and  the  repetition  and  echo  of  sounds 
within  the  line  we  have  already  spoken  ;  of  the  use  of  liquids  and  other  soft 
and  prolonged  consonants,  of  the  languid  sequence  of  the  vowels  (see  In- 
troduction, §§21,  I,  3;  23,  2,  3),  the  student  can  easily  and  pleasurably 
inform  himself.  The  pleasure  of  such  study  will  be  enhanced  by  comparing 
the  art. of  rhythm  and  sound  in  this  poem  with  that  of  Keats's  Ode  to  a 
Nightingale,  Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan,  or  Rossetti's  The  Blessed  DamozeL 

DOBSON 

"  Good-night,  Babette  ! "  From  Proverbs  in  Porcelain.  This  little 
scene,  with  its  piercing  pathos  of  irrecoverable  youth,  is  one  of  six  similar 
pieces,  each  of  which  is  an  interpretation  of  a  group  in  Sevres  porcelain,  — 
as  to  "  why  and  how  The  fragile  figures  smile  and  bow."  Si  vieillesse 
pouvait !  If  old  age  could  only  bring  it  all  back  again  !  6.  Babette  had 
gone  to  drop  her  immortelle  on  the  grave  of  Ma'am'selle  Rose.  20.  chan- 
sonnette,  a  little  song.  21.  Angelus.  The  bell, — tolled  morning,  noon,  and 
evening  to  indicate  when  the  devotion  is  to  be  recited  in  memory  of  the 
Anunciation  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  *'  Angelus  Domini  nuntiavit  Mariae  " 
(The  angel  of  the  Lord  announced  to  Mary).  35.  the  love  I  lost,  Rose. 
38.  "  the  sky  so  blue."     Cf.  1.  10. 

The  Child-Musician.  From  Vignettes  in  Rhyme.  "These  verses 
originated  in  an  '  American  story  '  told  me  orally  by  a  friend  who  had  found 
it  copied  into  some  English  paper.  I  '  romanced  '  it  after  my  own  fashion. 
.  .  .  Those  who  wish  to  read  the  true  and  authentic  story  of  poor  little 
James  Speaight  must  do  so  ^n  the  pathetic  prose  setting  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich  "  (Mr.  Dobson's  Note). 

Essays  in  Old  French  Forms.  For  Mr.  Dobson's  introduction  of  these 
forms  into  English  verse  see  the  introduction  to  the  selections,  p.  453;  for 
definition  and  analysis  of  these  forms  see  Introduction,  §  28,  1-4. 

Rose  Crossed  the  Road.  Mr.  Dobson's  title  for  this  triolet,  Urceiis 
Exit,  alludes  to  an  epigram  in  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  1.  22,  "  I  intended  a 
wine- jar  but  it  turned  out  a  pitcher."  This  is  the  fifth  and  last  in  a  little 
series  of  triolets  under  the  general  title  Rose-Leaves, 


NOTES  TO  BRIDGES  723 

The  Wanderer.     13.  repelling.    Modifies  *anns.'     17.  over-spelling, 

going  over  it  all  again  in  memory. 

With  Pipe  and  Flute.  Dedicated  to  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  in  reference, 
apparently,  to  his  volume  of  verses,  On  Viol  and  Flute  (1873).  22.  Pan. 
See  CI.  Did.,  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  45,  181-185.  28.  Arcady,  Arcadia.  A  moun- 
tainous region  in  Greece  proverbial  for  its  rural  simplicity  ;  the  ideal 
pastoral  Arcadia  of  the  poets  was  not  known  to  the  Greek  pastoral  poets, 
but  seems  to  have  been  a  modern  invention,  some  say  of  the  Italian,  San- 
nazaro  (d.  1530),  who  wrote  a  prose  pastoral  called  Arcadia.  32.  Beersheba 
unto  Dan.  From  one  end  of  the  land  to  the  other :  the  whole  extent  of 
Palestine  from  Dan  in  the  north  to  Beersheba  in  the  south  (see  I  Sam.  iii. 
20,  etc.).  33.  Apollo's  self,  not  to  speak  of  the  rustic  Pan,  who  was  very 
much  Apollo's  inferior  as  a  musician  (see  CI.  M.,  pp.  iio-iii).  34.  night- 
jar.    A  bird,  also  called  the  goatsucker,  with  a  very  disagreeable  song. 

For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus.  For  the  great  pastoral  and  idyllic  poet, 
Theocritus,  a  Greek  of  ^Sicily  and  Alexandria,  who  flourished  in  the  third 
century  B.C.,  see  Encyc.  Brit.  For  selections  from  his  Idylls  and  Pastorals 
see  CI.  M.,  pp.  198-200,  222,  223,  224.  37.  fold,  sheepfold.  39-  Age  of 
Gold.  See  CI.  M.,  pp.  10,  11,  59,  366  . —  For  another  tribute  to  Theocritus 
see  Andrew  Lang's  Ballade  to  Theocritus  in  Winter. 

LANG 

Ballade  of  Middle  Age.  From  Rhymes  d  la  Mode.  For  French  forms 
of  versification  see  Introduction,  §28,  and  under  Dobson,  above.  3,  4. 
threnodies,  elegiacs.  See  Diet.  22.  wot,  know  (first  person  singular  in- 
dicative present  of  *  wit ').  25.  O  nate  mecum.  O  thou  who  wert  bom  with 
me,  i.e.  my  contemporary  (from  Horace's  Ode  to  Corvinus  :  OdeSy  III,  21). 

BRIDGES 

I  Have  Loved  Flowers  that  Fade.  1-8.  The  beauty  of  flowers. 
4.  unmemoried  scents.    Scents  that  cannot  be  recalled. 

9-16.  The  beauty  of  music.  9.  airs,  musical  airs,  that  cease  almost 
before  they  are  projected  into  the  air. 

17-24.    The  mission  of  song.     22.  'Twas  thine.     'Twas  thy  part. 

I  Love  All  Beauteous  Things.  3.  To  love  beautiful  things  is  one  of 
the  best  ways  of  praising  God.  Man  deserves  honor  for  his  love  of  beauty, 
and  he  wins  joy,  brief  though  it  be,  in  the  making  of  beautiful  things  that 
others  may  love. 

Laus  Deo.  Let  "  praise  to  God  "  consecrate  thy  work.  4.  that  .  .  . 
nought.     In  apposition  with  '  thought,'  1.  3. 

Weep  not  To-day.  2.  in  present  fears,  amid  the  fears  that  beset  you 
now.  13-16.  Fight  now  and  always  that  death  may  find  you  brave. 
Death  is  not  far  away  nor  unexpected.    That  day  will  be  just  as  much  a 


724  NOTES  TO  WATSON 

*  to-day  '  to  you  as  is  the  "  to-day  "  of  your  present  grief  :  only  there  will 
be  no  "  to-morrow." 

HENLEY 

I  AM  THE  Captain  of  my  Soul.  This  poem,  from  Echoes,  is  dedicated 
In  Memoriam,  R.  T,  Hamilton  Bruce  (1846-1899),  but  the  date  of  com- 
position is  given  as  1875  and  Professor  Saintsbury  says  it  is  "  the  portrait 
of  Stevenson." 

DAVIDSON 

God  is  an  Artist,  not  an  Artisan.  This  is  a  selection  from  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Day,  in  the  Fleet  Street  Eclogues.  18.  plasm,  the  physical  basis 
of  life,     motes,  small  particles  of  matter.     30.  battened,  fed  gluttonously. 

The  Unknown.  From  The  Last  Ballad.  16-18.  This  and  only  this 
can  even  up  the  odds  that  are  against  us  in  life,  viz.,  *  To  brave  and  to  know 
tHe  unknown,'  and  that  efifort  is  both  motive  and  goal  of  all  noble  existence. 

19.  strewn,  rhyming  perfectly  with  'unknown.'  See  pronunciation 
in  Diet. 

WATSON 

Wordsworth's  Grave.  For  list  of  other  elegies  in  this  book,  see  top 
p.  670.  I.  The  old  rude  church,  Wordsworth  was  buried  in  the  churchyard 
at  Grasmere,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rotha,  or  Rothay.  2.  high-bom.  The 
Rothay  rises  in  the  mountains  to  the  north  of  Grasmere.  13.  The  line 
suggests  the  medieval  supernaturalism  beloved  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites  and 
earlier  romantic  poets.  17-20.  Suggestive  of  what  lines  in  Tintern  Abbey 
and  the  Ode  on  Immortality  ?  29-32.  The  significance,  appropriateness,  of 
each  adjective  ?  Watson  does  not  choose  his  epithets  merely  for  their 
sound  or  color,  but  for  their  truth.  This  gives  depth  to  his  style.  36.  The 
keynote  of  Mr.  Watson's  interpretation  of  Wordsworth's  poetry.  >  41. 
Lethe,  the  river  of  oblivion.  See  CI.  M.,  p.  51.  46.  frenzied,  inspired. 
59-60.  An  allusion  to  Wordsworth's  simple  subjects  and  natural  diction 
(see  above,  the  Introduction  to  his  poems). 

65-120.  On  eighteenth-century  poetry,  cf.  above,  the  introduction  to 
Chap.  VI  :  The  Classical  or  Conventional  School.  66-67.  Referring 
to  the  poetry  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  68.  a  modish  dress  to  charm  the 
Town.  A  fashionable  style,  conventional  and  artificial,  to  please  the  society 
wits  of  London  :  the  style  of  Pope  and  his  followers.  89.  rugged  scholar- 
sage.  Samuel  Johnson.  The  allusion  is  to  passages  in  Johnson's  London, 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  Letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  etc.  95.  Collins. 
William  Collins  (17 21-1759),  whose  lyrics,  like  those  of  Gray  {cf.  1.  96),  are 
a  note  of  grace  and  beauty  in  the  midst  of  the  conventional  rhetoric  of  the 
age.  96.  the  frugal  note  of  Gray.  Cf.  above,  Chap.  VI.  99-100.  Allud- 
ing to  Goldsmith's  Deserted   Village.     loi-iio.    Bums.     1 10-120.     Cole- 


RECESSIONAL  725 

ridge  and  Wordsworth.     117.  Rydal  Mere.     From  Grasmere  Wordsworth 
moved  to  Rydal  Mount ;  cf.  above,  Chap.  VII. 

121-188.  127-128.  Perhaps  Swinburne,  and  Browning.  129.  idly 
tuneful.  Does  he  mean  Morris  ?  i33-i34-  Possibly  alluding  to  the 
writers  in  French  forms  of  verse.  149-150.  Byron.  151  ff.  Words- 
worth. 161-164.  Stock  settings  in  romantic  poetry.  173.  Helm  Crag, 
Silver  Howe.    Mountains  in  the  lake  region  of  Westmoreland. 

KIPLING 

Mandalay.  From  Barrack-Room  Ballads.  In  this  poem  and  the  next 
the  "  Tommy  Atkins  "  or  British  soldier  of  the  regular  army  uses  the 
London  cockney  dialect —  dropping  his  A's,  the  d  from  "  and,"  the/  from 
"  of,"  and  the  g  from  "  ing."  1-10.  Burma,  an  ancient  kingdom,  now  part 
of  the  British  Empire,  lies  northeast  of  the  Bay  of  Bengal.  Mandalay  is  its 
capital,  and  Moulmein  one  of  its  seaports,  Rangoon  is  the  principal 
town  in  Lower  Burma.  12.  Theebaw,  the  last  king  of  Burma,  deposed  by 
the  British  in  1885.  15.  bloomin',  slang  for  full-blown,  absolute.  16. 
Budd,  Buddha.  22-23.  hathis,  Hindu  for  elephants,  teak,  a  dark, 
durable  wood.  28.  the  Bank,  of  England,  in  London.  37.  Chelsea,  a 
suburb,  and  the  Strand,  a  main  thoroughfare,  of  London.  39.  grubby, 
colloquial  for  dirty  as  from  scratching  up  the  earth  with  the  hands.  43. 
Suez,  a  seaport  of  Egypt,  on  the  northwestern  arm  of  the  Red  Sea. 

GuNGA  Din.  From  Barrack-Room  Ballads.  2-3.  When  you  are  in 
comfortable  quarters  at  the  military  camp  at  Aldershot,  near  London,  and 
engage  only  in  the  sham  fighting  of  manoeuvres.  6.  You'll  lick  his  very 
boots,  hunuliating  as  that  may  be.  12.  bhisti,  Anglo-Indian  for  water- 
carrier.  15-16.  Slide  here  quick  ;  bring  water  swiftly.  27.  Harry  By, 
O  brother  !  32.  juldee,  hurry.  33.  marrow,  hit.  35.  dot  an'  carry 
one  :  i.e.  his  limping  gait.  41.  mussick,  water-bag  of  skin.  70.  dooli,  a 
litter  for  the  wounded.  82.  Lazarushian-leather,  slang.  The  word  is 
made  by  telescoping  "  Lazarus  "  (the  kindly  beggar)  with  "  Russian  leather  " 
(the  color  of  Gunga  Din). 

If,  From  Rewards  and  Fairies,  1910  ;  Inclusive  Edition,  1919.  17-20. 
Not  gambling  for  money,  but  putting  all  that  you  are  into  some  good  cause 
and,  if  you  fail,  taking  your  defeat  bravely  and  starting  all  over  again. 
29.  Kipling's  creed  of  work.  The  minute  will  never  forgive  you  if  you 
fail  to  devote  its  fulness  to  the  Lord.  Such  shirking  stands  an  offence  to 
all  eternity. 

When  Life's  Last  Picture  is  Painted.     VEnvoi  to  The  Seven  Seas. 

Recessional.  From  The  Five  Nations.  Written  for  the  Diamond 
Jubilee,  beginning  June  22,  1897,  in  celebration  of  the  sixtieth  anniversary 
of  Queen  Victoria's  accession  to  the  throne.  4.  palm  and  pine  :  by  me- 
tonymy for  south  and  north.  7.  The  verb  in  the  singular,  because  the 
nouns  present  a  collective  idea.     14.  dune,  a  ridge  of  loose  sand  on  the 


7^6  NOTES  TO  MASEFIELD 

coast.  i6.  The  Assyrian  empire,  which  had  been  in  existence  more  than 
twelve  centuries,  fell  with  the  fall  of  Nineveh  in  608  B.C.  Tyre,  the  most 
queenly  of  Phoenician  cities  for  six  centuries,  never  recovered  its  prestige 
after  its  capture  by  Alexander  the  Great  in  332  B.C.  26.  The  barrel  of  the 
gun  and  the  murderous  fragments  of  the  bomb-shell. 

For  All  We  Have  and  Are.  From  TIte  Years  Between.  Written  in 
1914,  when  Britam  declared  war  upon  Germany. 

YEATS 

Innisfree.  An  islet  off  County  Mayo  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland. 
Dooney ,  Kilvarnet,  etc.  On  the  west  coast  of  Ireland.  Mavrone,  my.  poor 
dear ;  here  in  the  sense  of  alas  !  —  Pronounce  Yeats,  Yates. 

PHILLIPS 
Marpessa.    For  the  story  see  CI.  Diet,  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  115-116. 

DE  LA  MARE 

Nicholas  Nye.  1.  darnel,  a  wheat-field  weed,  dock,  a  coarse  weed. 
2.  may.  The  hawthorn  ;  from  the  month  in  which  it  blooms.  7.  lone, 
loneliness.  15.  turn  to  his  head,  turn  his  head  to,  or  round,  as  if  to  speak 
to  himself  or  to  the  httle  boy. 

The  Truants.  The  truant,  or  the  child  stolen  away  by  magic,  would 
seem  to  be  each  man's  lost  childhood,  —  the  child  he  once  was  ;  or  may 
not  the  truants  be  the  children  grown  up  whom  Time  has  stolen  from  their 
parents? 

MASEFIELD 

A  Consecration.  Prefixed  to  Salt-water  Ballads  (1902),  the  poems  of 
which  were  written  during  boyhood  and  youth.  9.  koppie,  Anglo-Afri- 
can for  a  hillock.  13.  clout,  rag  or  cloth  for  cleaning.  14.  chantyman. 
The  chanty  is '"a  song  sung  to  lighten  labor  at  the  capstan  sheets,  and 
halliards.  The  soloist  is  known  as  the  chanty-man,  and  is  usually  a  person 
of  some  authority  in  the  fo'c's'le  "  (Mr.  Masefield's  note,  as  are  also 
the  quoted  notes  under  Daiiber).  halliards.  Ropes  by  which  sails  are 
hoisted. 

Dauber.  The  Story  of  a  Round  House  (191 2).  This  noble  poem  of 
some  two  thousand  lines  should  be  read  in  full.  Our  selections  offer  but  an 
outline  of  the  story  and  a  glimpse  of  the  beauty  that  invests  it.  7.  idlers. 
"  The  members  of  the  round-house  mess,  generally  consisting  of  the  car- 
penter, cook,  sailmaker,  boatswain,  painter,  etc.,  are  known  as  the  idlers." 
abaft  the  galley,  behind  the  ship's  kitchen.  11.  bouilli,  preserved  meat. 
12.  dungarees,  "  thin  blue  or  khaki-colored  overalls  made  from  cocoanut 
fibre."     15.   Si,  one  of  the  apprentices.     18.  Z.   English    pronunciation, 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  727 

Zed.  20.  skysails,  the  uppermost  square  sails.  Trade.  Trade-wind,  i.e. 
a  wind  blowing  continually  in  the  same  direction  —  hence  useful  to  navi- 
gators or  '  trade ' ;  see  Diet.  27.  yard,  see  note  on  1.  116.  33.  half-decks, 
"  cabins  or  apartments  in  which  the  apprentices  are  berthed."  34. 
fo'c's'le.  This  is  the  sailors'  pronunciation  of  '  forecastle,'  the  cabin  or 
cabins  in  which  the  men  are  berthed.  47.  clipper,  "  a  title  of  honor  given 
to  ships  of  more  than  usual  speed  and  beauty."  61.  Eight  bells:  struck 
on  shipboard  every  four  hours  — •  at  4,  8,  and  12  o'clock,  when  one  "  watch  " 
ends  and  another  begins.  What  hour  does  this  seem  to  have  been?  72. 
Trades.  See  note  on  1.  20.  91.  dungarees.  See  note  on  1.  12.  98. 
reefers,  apprentices.  112.  Sails,  the  sailmaker.  shackles,  rope  handles 
for  a  sea-chest,  pointing,  "  a  kind  of  neat  plait  with  which  ropes  are 
sometimes  ended  off  or  decorated."  115.  spit  brown,  chew  tobacco. 
116.  crojick,  or  crossjack,  "a  square  sail  set  upon  the  lower  yard  of  the 
mizen  mast."  braces,  "  ropes  by  which  the  yards  are  inclined  forward 
or  aft."  Yards  are  "  steel  or  wooden  spars  (placed  across  masts)  from 
which  square  sails  are  set."  124.  Chips,  the  carpenter.  147.  Bosun, 
sailors'  pronounciation  of  '  boatswain.'  See  Diet.  175.  Shifting  suits, 
changing  sails.  185.  yards.  See  note  on  1.  116.  191.  sheet,  a  rope  or 
chain  for  extending  the  lower  comer  of  a  square  sail,  clew,  i.e.  clew-line, 
a  rope  for  lifting  the  lower  comer  of  a  square  sail,  start,  slack  off  a  little. 
192.  royals,  light  upper  square  sails.  216.  Mizen  top-gallants.  The  miz- 
zentop-gallant  sail  is  the  third  sail  from  the  top  on  the  aftermost  mast.  For 
this  and  other  technical  terms  of  a  ship's  rigging  see  the  illustration  under 

*  ship  '  in  Century  Diet.  218.  slatted.  Referring  to  the  noise  of  sails  flog- 
ging in  the  wind.  223.  ringbolt,  a  metallic  bolt  with  an  eye  to  which  is 
fitted  a  ring.  250.  topsail  yards.  The  topsails  are  the  second  and  third 
sails  from  the  deck.  255.  sheet.  See  note  on  1.  191.  259.  soldier.  A 
colloquialism  for  one. who  pretends  to  work  but  is  really  of  little  or  no'use. 
275.  sheet-blocks,  "  iron  blocks,  by  means  of  which  sails  are  sheeted  home." 
301.  half-deck.     See  note  on  1.  33. 

Cargoes.  From  The  Story  of  a  Round  House.  "  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  modem  poems  made  out  of  a  symbol  is  Cargoes  by  John  Masefield. 
Only  one  symbol  is  used  —  the  cargo.  But  in  terms  of  that  s)anbol,  and  in 
three  short  stanzas,  Mr.  Masefield  describes  commerce  in  three  great  periods 
of  the  world's  history.  And  he  contrives  to  give  us  a  sense  of  the  world's 
growth  in  democracy  without  saying  a  word  about  it  "  (Marguerite  Wilkin- 
son, New  Voices,  p.  96). 

NOYES 

The  Barrel-Organ.    2.  the  City.    The  commercial  centre  of  London 

•  is  known  as  the  '  City.'  4.  fulfilled,  completed.  8.  Symphony.  The 
rhythm  of  life.  The  simple,  imperfect  music  of  the  barrel-organ  is  so  en- 
riched and  perfected  in  the  human  emotions  it  stirs  that  it  does  indeed  bear 


728  NOTES  TO  NOYES 

its  part  in  the  eternal  symphony  of  life.  Cf.  the  fuller  statement  of  the  idea 
in  11.  104-107,  129-138,  below.  17.  The  changes  of  the  music  of  the  barrel- 
organ  are  reflected  in  the  lyric  changes  of  the  poem,  as  here,  and  below  at 
11-  33>  53>  lOQj  121,  129,  139,  155.  18.  prismatic.  See  Did.,  prism.  Note 
the  extension  of  the  figure  in  11.  i9'-24  and  discuss  its  propriety.  Why 
'  Dissects '  (21)  ?  25.  La  Traviata.  Verdi's  pathetic  opera,  founded  on  the 
well-known  play  by  Alexandre  Dumas,  La  Dame  aux  Camelias.  27.  /Z 
Trovatore.  A  tragic  opera  by  Verdi.  32.  a  dance.  The  music  changes 
to  a  dance  tune,  reflected  in  the  tripping  measures  of  11.  33-52.  33.  Kew. 
At  Kew,  a  suburb  of  London,  are  the  beautiful  Botanic  Gardens.  41. 
Dorian  nightingale.  Dorian,  in  reference  to  the  Dorian  story  of  Philomela. 
See  CI.  Did.  or  CI.  M.,  pp.  249,  250.  58.  poppies.  Symbolic  of  the  land 
of  dead  dreams,  1.  59.  59.  dead  dreams.  Dreams  of  the  past.  60.  Verdi. 
Giuseppe  Verdi  (1813-1901),  the  most  popular  of  Italian  operatic  composers. 
63.  Piccadilly.  A  famous  thoroughfare  in  London — a  sort  of  Fifth  Avenue 
—  so  named  from  the  picardils  or  piccadills,  small  stiff  collars,  affected  by 
the  gallants  of  the  time  of  James  I.  65.  A  che  la  morte,  passionate  song 
of  lost  love  in  II  Trovatore.  74.  modish,  stylish.  83-87.  Referring  to 
rowing-matches  on  the  Isis,  i.e.  the  upper  course  of  the  Thames.  95. 
demi-rep,  a  woman  of  doubtful  reputation.  109-128.  So  it's  Jeremiah. 
The  music  changes  from  the  pathos  of  the  dead  dreams  to  the  gayety  of 
true  love  coming. 

The  Admiral's  Ghost.  Horatio  Nelson  (1758-1805),  the  great  English 
admiral,  defeated  the  French  fleet  off  Cape  Trafalgar,  Oct.  21,  1805,  thus 
destroying  Napoleon's  hope  of  invading  England.  He  had  lost  his  right 
arm  and  his  right  eye  in  earlier  service.  T.  M.  Hardy,  who  was  Nelson's 
flag-captain  at  Trafalgar,  was  walking  the  deck  of  the  "  Victory  "  with  the 
admiral  when  the  latter  received  his  death  wound.  —  Sir  Francis  Drake 
(c.  1 545-1 595),  the  first  English  commander  to  see  the  Pacific  Ocean  and 
to  circumnavigate  the  globe,  worsted  the  Spanish  in  many  naval  battles, 
and  as  vice-admiral  shared  in  the  victory  over  the  Spanish  Armada  (1588). 
He  was  a  Devonshire  man,  as  suggested  in  the  poem.  He  died  aboard  his 
ship,  at  Nombre  de  Dios  Bay  in  the  West  Indies,  during  an  expedition 
against  the  Spaniards. 

STEPHENS 

The  Lonely  God.     From  The  Hill  of  Vision  (Maunsel,  191 2). 

From  the  Adventures  of  Seumas  Beg.  For  the  rest  of  these  charm- 
ing poems  see  Mr.  Stephens's  The  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin  :  The  Adventures 
of  Seumas  Beg  (The  Macmillan  Co.,  1915).    Seumas,  pronounced  Shd-mtis. 


INDEX 


In  the  following  Index  the  Roman  numerals  refer  to  the  Introduction  to  the  Study 
of  Poetry;  the  Arabic  numerals  refer  chiefly  to  the  pages  on  the  Progress  and  Master- 
Pieces  of  English  Poetry,  —  the  history  of  the  poetry,  and  the  lives  and  works  of 
EngUsh  poets.  The  names  of  authors  who  are  represented  by  poems  in  this  volume 
are  printed  in  small  capitals  ;  titles  of  poems  treated  at  length  are  printed  in  bold- 
face type;  important  titles  that  receive  brief  mention  are  indicated  by  italics.  A 
liberal  system  of  cross  references  in  the  Notts  has  rendered  any  detailed  indexing  of 
notes  unnecessary.  __ 


Abercrombie.  Lascelles,  a  twentieth- 
century  poet,  517 

Abou  Ben  Adhem,  text  of,  204  ; 
estimate  of,  204 

Absalom  and  Achitophel,  91,  92  ;  as 
a  political  satire,  Ixvi 

Accent  :  see  Stress  ;  hovering  and 
wrenched,  xxxix 

Acceptance,  degree  of,  of  a  poem,  as 
a  test  of  worth,  Ixxi 

Action,  poetry  by  :  see  Drama 

Addison's  criticism  on  The  Rape  of 
the  Lock,  102 

Admiral's  Ghost,  The,  text  of,  548- 
551  ;  explanation  of,  728 

Adonais,  Stanzas  from,  text  of,  236- 
238  ;  as  an  elegy,  229,  484,  669, 
670  ;  origin  of  name,  670;  notes 
on,  670-671  ;  as  interpretative 
poetry,  Ixix 

Adventures  of  Seuinas  Beg,  Poems 
from  the  :  see  subtitles  under  this 
index,  —  The  Horse,  The  Devil's 
Bag,  A  Visit  from  Abroad,  What 
the  Snake  Saw,  and  Midnight  ; 
characterization  of ,  556;  reference 
on,  728  ;   as  a  narrative  lyric,  Ivii 

jEneid,  Surrey's  translation,  31  ; 
Dryden's  translation,  91  ;  as  a 
modern  epic,  Iviii 

/Esthetic  Transition,  a  poet  of  the, 
240 

Alexander's  Feast,  text  of,  92-97  ; 
circumstances  of  composition, 
^24  ;  criticism  of,  624-625  ; 
notes  on.  625-626  ;   as  an  ode,  li 

729 


Alexandrine,  the,  671,  xxXvi,  1 

All  but  Blind,  text  of,  524-525 

Allegory,  the,  lix-lx 

Allegro,  L',  text  of,  66-70  ;  criticism 
of,  65,  602-603  ;  notes  on,  603- 
607  ;   as  a  reflective  lyric,  Ivi 

Alliteration,  xlv 

Anacrusis,  xxxix-xl 

Anapaest,  xxxiii,  xxxiv,  xxxvi 

Ancient  Mariner,  The  Rime  of  the, 
text  of,  178-198  ;  estimate  of, 
177  ;  a  part  of  the  Lyrical  Bal 
lads,  159,  177  ;  circumstances  of 
composition,  653-655  ;  versifi- 
cation of,  655;  notes  on,  655-661  ; 
melody  of  word  sounds  in,  xli- 
xlii  ;  stanzaic  structure  of,  xlviii  ; 
as  a  ballad,  Iviii 

Andrea  del  Sarto,  text  of,  314-321  ; 
story  of,  692-693  ;  circumstances 
of  composition,  693  ;  notes  on, 
693-694  ;  as  a  dramatic  mono- 
logue, Ixii 

Anglo-Saxon  element  in  English 
language,  3,  4 

Anglo-Saxons,  conquest  of  Britain, 
1-2  ;  christianized,  2  ;  con- 
quered by  the  Norman  French,  3 

Antithesis,  xxviii 

Apelles  Song,  text  of,  41  ;  notes  on, 
600 

Apocope,  xl 

Apology,  An,  text  of,  433-434  ; 
characterization  of,  431  ;  notes 
on,  720  ;  stanzaic  structure  of, 
xlix 


730 


INDEX 


Apostrophe,  xxvii 

Areopagitica,  65 

Ariel's  Song,  text  of,  49  ;  note  on, 
601 

Armies  in  the  Fire,  text  of,  477 

Arnold,  Dr.  Thomas,  159,  330,  699, 
700 

Arnold,  Matthew,  comparison  of 
with  Macaulay,  329  ;  comparison 
of  with  Meredith,  344,  345  ;  com- 
parison of  with  Lowell,  354  ;  criti- 
cism of,  329-330  ;  life  of,  330- 
331  ;  works  of,  331  ;  as  a  writer 
of  prose,  330  ;  mention  of,  36, 
158,  241,  345,  355,  356-357,  484  ; 
his  test  for  high  poetic  merit, 
Ixvi-lxviii.  For  poems,  —  The 
Forsaken  Merman,  To  Marguerite, 
Rugby  Chapel,  Dover  Beach,  and 
Requiescat,  see  titles  under  this 
index 

Arthur,  King,  legends  and  poems 
concerning,  2,  29,  352-354.  368- 
369 

Assonance,  xlv 

Astro phel  and  Stella,  Sidney's  son- 
net sequence,  38 

Atalanta  in  Calydon,  443,  445 

Aubade,  text  of,  48  ;   notes  on,  601 

Auguries  of  Innocence,  text  of,  138  ; 
notes  on,  640 

August,  1914,  Masefield's  elegy  on 
the  Great  War,  528,  566 

Auld    Lang    Syne,    text    of,    141  ; 

f    notes  on,  641  ;  as  a  song,  Iv 


Balance,  xxviii 

Balaustion's  Adventure,  308 

Balder  Dead,  331 

Ballad,    definition,    characteristics, 

kinds   and   growth   of,    Iviii-Ux  ; 

form  of  stanza,  xlvii-xlviii,  655 
Ballade,  the,  1,  liii-liv,  453;  example 

of,  460-461 
Ballade  of  Middle  Age,    text   of, 

460-461  ;    notes  on.  723  ;    stan- 

zaic  structure  of,  1,  liii-liv 
Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan,  The,  text 

of,     506-507  ;      note    on,     726  ; 

stanzaic  structure  of,  xlviii 


Ballad  of  the  Fiddler,  The,  text  of, 
562-564  ;  stanzaic  structure  of, 
xlviii 

Ballads,  the  early,  growth  and  in- 
fluence of,  29;  books  in  which 
they  may  be  found,*29  ;  influence 
on  Rossetti,  424 ;  writers  of  mod- 
ern, lix 

Ballads  in  Blue  China,  460 

Bargain,  A,  text  of,  41  ;  note  on, 
600 

Barrack  Room  Ballads,  469,  492 

Barrel  Organ,  The,  text  of,  542- 
547  ;  characterization  of,  541  ; 
notes  on,  727-728 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The,  text  of, 
200-202  ;  notes  on,  661 

Beaumont,  Francis,  38.  For 
poem,  —  On  the  Tombs  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  see  title  under 
this  index. 

Beowulf,  when  composed,  2  ;  trans- 
lations of,  4  ;   as  a  folk  epic,  Iviii 

Biglow  Papers,  355-356. 

Binyon,  Laurence,  450,  451,  507, 
566.  For  poem,  —  Edith  Cavell, 
see  title  under  this  index 

Biographia  Liter  aria,  177. 

Blake,  William,  characterization 
of,  1x6,  135  ;  as  a  forerunner  of 
other  poets,  42 2,** 423,  424,  445, 
504,  640.  For  poems,  —  Intro- 
duction to  Songs  of  Innocence,  On 
Another's  Sorrow,  The  Chimney 
Sweeper,  and  Auguries  of  In- 
nocence, see  titles  under  this 
index 

Blank  verse,  introduction  into  Eng- 
land, 31  ;  epic  and  dramatic,  31, 
xxxv-xxxvi  ;  of  Milton,  618,  684, 
686  ;  of  Tennyson,  369,  684  ;  of 
Phillips,  509  ;  caesural  pause  in, 
xxxviii 

Blessed  Damozel,  The,  text  of, 
426-430  ;  when  written,  424,  425, 
718  ;  circumstances  of  composi- 
tion, 718  ;  criticism  of,  718  ; 
notes  on,  718-719  ;  stanzaic 
structure  of,  xlix 

Boccaccio,  5,  7 

Soke  of  the  Duchesse,  6 


INDEX 


731 


Bonie  Doon,  text  of,  143-144  ; 
notes  on,  642  ;   as  a  song,  140,  Iv 

Bonnjvard,  "  the  prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon,"  662 

Break,  Break,  Break,  text  of,  301  ; 
circumstances  of  composition,  687 

Bridges,  Robert,  facts  about, 
criticism  of,  and  poems,  462-463  ; 
as  poet  laureate,  462  ;  mention 
of,  450,  451,  452,  468,  528.  For 
poems,  —  /  have  Loved  Flowers 
that  Fade,  I  Love  all  Beauteous 
Things,  Laus  Deo,  and  Weep  not 
Today,  see  titles  under  this  index 

Broken  utterance,  xxviii 

Brooke,  Rupert,  mentioa  of,  345, 
517,  518,  567-568.  For  poems, 
—  The  Soldier  and  The  Dead,  see 
titles  under  this  index 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  262, 
307 

Browning,  Robert,  comparison  of 
with  Tennyson,  305-306,  306- 
307;  criticism  of,  306;  life  and 
works  of,  307-308  ;  mention  of, 
20s,  227,  263,  329,  344,  425,  451, 
495  ;  For  poems,  —  Songs  from 
Pippa  Passes,  Incident  of  the 
French  Camp,  The  Patriot,  Home- 
Thoughts,  from  Abroad,  Home- 
Thoughts,  from  the  Sea,  My  Last 
Duchess,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra,  Pros  pice,  and  the 
Epilogue  to  Asolando,  see  titles 
under  this  index. 

Brut,  Layamon's,  353 

Bunyan,  John,  63,  Ix 

Bume-Jones,  Sir  Edward,  painter, 
424,  431,  432,  491 

Burns,  Robert,  position  among 
eighteenth-century  poets,  116  ; 
criticism  of,  139  ;  characteristics 
of,  139  ;  life  of,  139-140  ;  works 
of,  140  ;  dialect  of,  140-141  ; 
discussion  of  his  songs,  640-641  ; 
mention  of,  38,  114,  116,  158,  227, 
228,  307,  422.  For  poems, — 
Auld  Lang  Syne,  Of  A'  the  Airts 
the  Wind  can  Blaw,  Highland 
Mary,  Bonie  Doon,  Duncan  Gray, 
Scots  Wha  Hae,  A  Man's  a  Man 


for  A'  That,  A  Red,  Red  Rose,  To 
a  Mouse,  and  The  Cotter's  Satur- 
day Night,  see  titles  under  this 
index. 
Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord, 
comparison  of  with  Shelley,  205  ; 
reputation  abroad,  206  ;  reputa- 
tion in  England,  206  ;  criticism 
of,  206-207  ;  life  and  works  of, 
207-208  ;  mention  of,  228,  307, 
422.  For  poems,  —  The  Pris- 
oner of  Chtllon, ,  stanzas  from 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage, 
Know  Ye  the  Land,  and  She 
Walks  in  Beauty,  see  titles  under 
this  index 

Caedmon's  Paraphrase,  2  ;  transla- 
tion from,  4 

Caesural  pause,  xxxviii-xxxix  ;  in 
blank  verse,  xxxviii  ;  in  dactylic 
hexameter,  xxxix  ;  in  other 
metres,  xxxix  ;  kinds  of,  xxxix 

Cambridge,  in  relation  to  English 
poetry  and  poets,  5,  28,  30,  33,  64, 
91,  117,  159,  176,  207,  263,  284, 
465,  568,  612 

Campion,  Thomas,  38.  For  poem, 
—  Cherry  Ripe,  see  title  under 
this  index 

Canterbury  Tales,  The,  when  writ- 
ten, 7  ;  list  of,  597  ;  as  ex- 
amples of  the  metrical  tale,  lix 

Carew,  Thomas,  characteristics  of 
poems,  55 

Cargoes,  text  of,  540  ;  explanation 
of,  72^ 

Carlyle's  estimate  of  Shakespeare, 
32 

Catalexis,  xl-xli 

Catastrophe,  the,  in  tragedy,  Ixiii 

Cavalier  Lyrists,  53,  54-55 

Caxton,  William,  29,  353 

Celtic  element  in  English  language 
and  literature,  i,  3,  4,  352  ; 
story  in  English  literature,  352 

Celts,  early  occupation  of  Britain, 
I  ;  present  home,  2,  4 

Chapman's  translation  of  Homer, 
679 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  his  position 


732 


INDEX 


in  English  poetry,  s,  6  ;  criticism 
of,  6  ;  life  and  works  of,  6-7  ; 
dialect  of  poems,  28  ;  imitators 
of,  28  ;  early  editions  of,  29  ; 
mention  of,  32,  33,  37,  64,  99,  100, 
157,  241,  354  ;  pronunciation  in, 
581-582  ;  versification  of,  582  ; 
influence  of,  431,  527,  528.  For 
poem,  —  Prologue  to  the  Canter- 
bury Tales,  see  title  under  this 
index 

Cherry  Ripe,  text  of,  50  ;  notes  on, 
601 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  esti- 
mate of,  206,  207,  208  ;  stanzas 
from  ;  see  sub-titles  under  this 
index,  —  Waterloo,  The  Coliseum, 
and  The  Ocean  ;  as  a  reflective- 
descriptive  poem,  Ixi-lxii  ;  stan- 
zaic  structure  of,  1  ;  supremely 
poetic  lines  in,  Ixvii-lxviii 

CWld  Musician,  The,  text  of,  456- 
457  ;    circumstances  of  composi- 

^  tion,  722 

Child's  Garden  of  Verses,  From  a, 
characterization  of,  473  ;  see  sub- 
titles under  this  index,  —  Travel, 
The  Land  of  Counterpane,  The 
Wind,  The  Unseen  Playmate, 
Armies  in  the  Fire,  and  Histori- 
cal Associations  ;  criticism  of,  473 

Chimney  Sweeper,  The,  text  of, 
138J;  note  on,  640 

Chivalry,  poetry  of,  origin  and 
history,  352-354  ;  legends  of  the 
Round  Table,  353  ;  Idylls  of  the 
King,^  353-354  ;  The  Vision  of 
Str  Launfal,  354 

Chorus,  the,  among  primitive 
peoples,  liv 

Chris  tahel,  177 

Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day,  307 

Classic,  meaning  of,  Ixxi 

Classical  school  of  pnaetry,  its  char- 
acteristics, 89-90,  98-100,  632- 
633  ;  contrast  with  Romanticism, 
156  ;  its  heroic  couplet,  98-99  ; 
influence  of  Pope  on,  99  ;  aims 
and  influence,  99-100  ;  gradual 
reaction  against,  100,  156 

Classics,  examples  of,   Ixxi  ;    some 


English  writers  of,  Ixxi  ;  revival 
of  the  ancient,  28 

Climax,  xxviii ;  the,  in  drama,  Ixii  ; 
in  a  five-act  play,  Ixiii 

Closed  couplet,  xlvi-xlvii 

Cloud,  The,  text  of,  232-235  ;  cir- 
cumstances of  composition,  668  ; 
notes  on,  668-669 

CoLERtDGE,  Samuel  Taylor,  char- 
acteristics of,  176  ;    criticism  of, 

176  ;   life  of,  176-177  ;   works  of, 

177  ;  mention  of,  156,  157,  159, 
200,  202,  205,  345.  422,  424,  425  ; 
connection  with  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  156,  654.  For  poems,  — 
The  Ancient  Mariner  and  Kubla 
Khan,  see  titles  under  this  index 

Coliseum,  The  (from  Childe 
Harold's\Pilgrimage),  text  of,  222- 
223  ;  circumstancfes  of  composi- 
tion, 665  ;  notes  on,  665-666 

Comedy,  general  characteristics  of 
—  comic  themes,  effect,  denoue- 
ment, characters,  situations,  etc., 
Ixiv-lxv  ;  the,  of  character,  situ- 
ation, and  manners,  Ixv  ;  comic 
scenes  in  tragedy,  Ixiii 

Coming  of  Arthur,  The,  story  of  and 
quotations  from,  708-711 

Commemoration  Ode,  356 

Common  metre  (C.  M.),  xlvii-xlviii 

Communal  song,  Iv 

Compleynte  unto  Pitie,  6 

Complication,  the,  in  drama,  Ixii  ; 
in  a  five-act  play,  Ixiii  ;  in  the 
farce,  Ixv 

Composed  upon  Westminster 
Bridge,  text  of,  174  ;  notes  and 
questions  on,  653 

Comus,  6^  ;  as  a  masque,  Ixv 

Conclusion,  The,  text  of,  40-41  ; 
note  on,  600 

Consecration,  A,  text  of,  529-530  ; 
notes  on,  726 

Consonants,  their  pleasant  and  un- 
pleasant sounds,  xli-xlii  ;  se- 
quences, xlii 

Conventional  school  :  see  Classical 
school 

Cook,  Prof.  Albert  S.,  translation 
from  Caedmon,  4 


INDEX 


733 


Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The,  text 
of,  149-155  ;  criticism  of,  643- 
644  :  notes  on,  644-646  ;  as  an 
idyll,  Ixi  ;   stanzaic  structure  of,  1 

Couplet,  the,  xlvi-xlvii 

Cowley,  37 

Cowper,  William,  91,  116,  156,  422 

Crabbe,  George,  116,  156,  158,  422, 
469 

Crashaw,  Richard,  a  writer  of  re- 
ligious verse,  55,  508 

Creative  poetry,  Ixix-lxxi 

Crossing  the  Bar,  text  of,  305  ; 
criticism  of,  285,  688  ;  circum- 
stances of  composition,  689 

Dactyl,  xxxiii,  xxxv,  xxxvi-xxxvii 

Dactylic  hexameter,  xxxvi  ;  caesural 
pause  in,  xxxix 

Dante,  7  ;  influence  on  Rossetti, 
424 

Darwin,  influence  on  Meredith,  344 

Dauber,  Selection  from,  text  of, 
530-540  ;  notes  on,  726-727  ;  as 
a  metrical  tale,  lix  ;  stanzaic 
structure  of,  xlix 

Davidson,  John,  life  and  works  of, 
479-481  ;  criticism  of,  480-481  ; 
mention  of,  345,  450,  451,  452, 
508.  For  poems,  —  God  is  an 
Artist,  not  an  Artisan  and  The 
Unknown,  see  titles  under  this 
index 

Davies,  W.  H.,  a  twentieth-century 
poet,  517 

Dead,  The,  I  and  Dead,  The,  II, 
text  of,  573-574 

Defense  for  the  English  People,  65 

De  la  Mare,  Walter,  facts  about 
and  works  of,  517-518  ;  criticism 
of,  518-519  ;  mention  of,  517, 
528,  541.  For  poems, — Miss 
Loo,  Old  Susan,  and  seven  of  the 
Poems  from  Peacock  Pie  — 
The  Little  Bird,  The  Little  Green 
Orchard,  Nicholas  Nye,  Poor 
"  Miss  7,"  Tit  for  Tat,  The 
Truants,  and  All  but  Blind,  see 

J*^  titles  under  this  index 

Denouement,  the,  in  comedy,  Ixiii, 
bdv 


Departed  Friends,  From,  text  of,  62 

Departmental  Ditties,  492 

Descriptive  poem,  the,  Ixi-lxii 

Deserted  Village,  The,  text  of,  124- 
135  ;  criticism  of,  124,  635  ; 
notes  on,  635-639  ;  as  a  reflective- 
descriptive  poem,  Ixi 

Devil's  Bag,  The,  text  of,  560 

Didactic  poetry,  Ixv-lxvi 

Dimeter,  xxxiv 

Dirge  of  Love,  text  of,  48  ;  note  on, 
601 

Divine  Comedy,  The,  as  a  modern 
epic,  Iviii 

DoBSON,  Henry  Austin,  facts 
about,  452  ;  criticism  and  works 
t>f.  453-454  ;  his  adaptation  in 
EngUsh  of  Old  French  forms  of 
verse,  451,  453  ;  mention  of,  450, 
459,  460,  462,  468.  For  poems, 
—  Good-Night  Babette,  The  Child 
Musician,  and  four  Essays  in 
Old  French  Forms  —  Rose 
Crossed  the  Road,  The  Wanderer, 
With  Pipe  and  Flute,  and  For  a 
Copy  of  Theocritus,  see  titles 
under  this  index 

Don  Juan,  206,  207,  208 

Donne,  John,  54 

Dover  Beach,  text  of,  342-343  ; 
criticism  of,  700-701  ;  notes  on. 
701 

Drake,  541  ;  as  a  metrical  romance, 
lix 

Drama,  its  development  in  England, 
32  ;  its  temporary  decline,  63  ; 
its  revival,  89  ;  discussion  of, 
Ixii-lxv  ;  definition,  general  char- 
acteristics, and  construction  of, 
Ixii-lxiii  ;  the  kinds  of,  defined 
and  their  characteristics  given, 
Ixiii-lxv  ;  tragedy,  Ixiii  ;  ro- 
mantic play,  Ixiv  ;  comedy,  Ixiv- 
Jxv  ;  farce,  Ixv  ;  melodrama, 
Ixv  ;  masque,  Ixv 

Dramatic  blank  verse,  31 

Dramatic  lyric,  the,  Ivii 

Dramatic  monologue,  the,  691,  Ixii 

Drinkwater,  John,  517,  566.  For 
poem,  —  We  Willed  It  Not,  see 
title  under  this  index 


734 


INDEX 


Dryden,  John,  criticism  of,  go  ; 
life  of,  go-Qi  ;  works  of,  91-92  ; 
as  poet  laureate,  91  ;  as  a  dram- 
atist, 91  ;  his  heroic  couplets, 
90  ;  as  a  prose  writer  and  critic, 
90  ;  mention  of,  55,  99,  100,  loi, 
306.  For  poem,  —  Alexander's 
Feast,  see  title  under  this  index 

Duncan  Gray,  text  of,  144-145  ; 
notes  on,  642 

Dunciad,  The,  loi  ;  as  a  personal 
satire,  Ixvi 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward,  38.  For  poem, 
—  My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is, 
see  title  under  this  index 

Earthly  Paradise,  The,  431,  432  ; 
stories  of,  as  metrical  romances, 
lix.  For  poems  from,  —  An 
Apology  and  The  Writing  on  the 
Image,  see  subtitles  under  this 
index 

East  Midland  dialect  of  early  Eng- 
lish, 5,  28 

Edinburgh  Review,  207,  263 

Edith  Cavell,  566  ;  text  of,  575-576 

Eight-line  stanzas,  xlix-1 

Elder  Victonan  Poets,  the,  261-262 

Elegiac  quatrain,  xlviii 

Elegy,  the,  484  ;  examples  of,  670  ; 
characteristics  of,  Ivi 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard, text  of,  1 1 8-1 2  2  ;  mention 
of,  116,  117,  118,  484  ;  criticism 
of,  632-633  ;  notes  on,  633-635  ; 
stanziac  structure  of,  xlviii 

Elision,  xl  ;  in  Chaucer,  8 

Elizabethan  Age,  its  characteristics, 
31-32;  development  of  its 
drama,  32 

Elizabethan  lyrists,  characteristics 
and  names,  38-39  ;  titles  and 
subjects  of  their  songs,  599 

EHzabethan  sonnet,  the,  599 

Emotions,  the,  xxix-xxxi  ;  disin- 
terested, ideal  emotions,  —  their 
nature  and  kinds,  xxix-xxx  ;  in 
relation  to  the  purpose  of  poetry, 
xxxi  ;  to  the  grades  of  poetry,  — 
interpretative  and  creative,  Ixix- 
Ixxi  ;    to  melody  of  word-sounds, 


xli  ;  in  lyric  poetry,  liv-lvii  ;  in 
narrative  poetry,  —  epic,  ro- 
mance, etc.,  Ivii-lxii  ;  in 
tragedy,  Ixiii  ;  in  comedy,  etc., 
Ixiv-lxv  ;  poetry  judged  in  re- 
spect of  its  power  to  stir  the 
nobler  emotions,  Ixxi 

End-rhyme,  xUv 

End-stopped  hne,  the,  xlvi 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers, 
207  ;  as  a  personal  satire,  Ixvi 

English  language,  a  composite,  4  ; 
early  development,  5  ;  early  dia- 
lects, 5  ;  later  development,  3 
(footnote) 

Enoch  Arden,  as  a  metrical  tale,  lix 

Enter  Patient,  text  of,  471 

Envoy,  the,  of  the  Ballade,  liii-liv 

Epic,  the,  Ivii-lviii  ;  definition  and 
characteristics  of,  Ivii  ;  growth 
of,  Ivii-lviii  ;    kinds  of,  Iviii 

Epic  blank  verse,  31,  xxxv-xxxvi  ; 
the  caesura  in,  xxxviii 

Epilogue  to  Asolando,  text  of,  328- 
329;  remarks  on,  698 

Essay  on  Criticism,  loi 

Essay  on  Man,  loi,  102  ;  as  a 
reflective  poem,  Ixvi 

Essays  in  Old  French  Forms  :  see 
subtitles  under  this  index,  — 
Rose  Crossed  the  Road  (triolet). 
The  Wanderer  (rondel),  With  Pipe 
and  Flute  (rondeau),  and  For  a 
Copy  of  Theocritus  (villanelle) 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The,  text  of,  242- 
254  ;  characterization  of,  242  ; 
influence  on  Rossetti,  424  ;  tradi- 
tion underlying,  672  ;  notes  on, 
673-676;  as  a  metrical  romance, 
lix  ;   stanzaic  structure  of,  1 

Excursion,  The,  159,  160 

Exposition,  the,  in  dramatic  plot, 
Ixii 

Fables,  Dryden's,  91 

Faerie  Queene,  Stanzas  from,  text 
of>  34~37  ;  its  composition,  33  ; 
criticism  of,  34-37  ;  length  of, 
36  ;  effect  on  Keats,  241,  242  ; 
plot  of,  597-598  ;  metrical  sys- 
tem of,  598  ;   notes  on,  598-599  ; 


INDEX 


735 


stanzaic  structure  of,  sg8,  1  ;    as 

an  allegory,  Ix 
Fairy    Life,    The,    text  of,    48-49  ; 

note  on,  601 
Farce,  the,  Ixv 
Feminine  caesura,  the,  xxxix 
Feminine  ending,  xl 
Feminine  rhyme,  xliv 
Ferrex    and    Porrex,    first    regular 

English  tragedy,  meter  of,  31 
Fiddler  of  Dooney,  The,   text  of, 

505;  note  on,  726  ;    as  a  simple 

lyric,  Ivi 
Fifteenth    Century,    characteristics 

of  the,  28-29 
Figures  of  poetry,  devices  of  creative 

imagination,  xxvii  ;   the  kinds  of, 

xxvii-xxviii 
Figures  of  speech,  devices  of  reason- 
ing and'of  rhetoric,  the  varieties 

of,  xxviii 
Fitzgerald,  Edward,  quatrain  of  the 

Rubdiydt,  xlviii-xUx 
Five-Une  stanzas,  xlix 
Fixed  forms  of  verse  with  refrain,  li- 

Uv 
Fixed   structure,   poems  of,   1-liv  ; 

the  regular'ode,  1  ;  the  sonnet,  li  ; 

the     Shakesperian     sonnet,     li  ; 

fixed  forms  with  refrain,  li-liv  ; 

French  forms,  lii-liv 
Fleet  Street  Eclogues,  479,  480 
Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall,  text 

oi,  305  ;    notes  and  criticism  on, 

688  _ 
Flower'of  Old  Japan,  542 
Folk-epics,  Iviii 
Foot,  the,  xxxiii-xli  ;    definition  of, 

xxxiii  ;J    kinds    of,    in    English, 

xxxiii-xxxiv 
For  a    Copy  of    Theocritus    (Vil- 

lanelle),  text  of,  458-459  ;    notes 

on,  723  ;   structure  of,  liii 
For  All  We  Have  and  Are,  text  of, 

502-503  ;    mention  of,  495,  566  ; 

note  on,  726 
Forsaken  Merman,   The,   text  of, 

.331-335;   criticism   of,  330-331, 

698  ;    notes  on,   698-699  ;    as  a 

metrical  romance,  lix 
Four-line  stanzas,  xlvii-xlix 


"  Fourteener,"  the  :  see  Shake- 
sperian sonnet 

Fourteenth  Century,  characteristics 
of  the,  5-6 

Franks,  influence  on  the  language  of 
Gaul,  2,  3 

Free  couplet,  the,  xlvi-xlvii 

"  Free  verse,"  470 

French  critical  school,  its  charac- 
teristics, 89-90,  98  ;  service  to 
EngUsh  poetry,  89-90 

French  influence  on  English  Litera- 
ture, 29,  89-90,  98,  451,  452,  453 

French  Poems  of  fixed  structure, 
imitated  in  EngHsh,  453,  Ui-Uv  ; 
compared  with  sonnet,  lii 

French  Revolution,  the,  influence  on 
certain  poets,  159,  205 

Funerals,  The,  text  of,  566  ;  allu- 
sion to,  562 

Garden  of  Proserpine,  The,  text  of, 
447-450  ;  underlying  thought, 
721  ;  criticism  of,  445,  722  ; 
beauties  of  rhyme  and  rhythm, 
721-722  ;  stanzaic  structure  of, 
xlix 

Gather  Ye  Rosebuds  While  Ye  May, 
text  of,  55-56  ;  note  on,  601 

Gaul  (France),  language  of,  2 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  and  the 
Arthurian  legend,  352 

Georgian  Poetry,  517 

Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson,  517,  567. 
For  poems,  —  Retreat,  The  Mes- 
sages, and  Salvage,  see  titles 
under  this  index 

Glories  of  Our  Blood  and  State, 
The,  text  of,  57-58  ;  note  on,  602 

Glory  of  Prometheus,  The,  text  of, 
239  ;  note  on  and  criticism  of, 
671-672 

God  Is  an  Artist,  not  an  Artisan 
(selection),  text  of,  481-482  ; 
characterization  of,  481  ;  notes 
on,  724 

Goethe,  his  estimate  of  Byron,  206 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  his  position 
among  eighteenth-century  poets, 
115  ;  criticism  of,  122  ;  life  of, 
122-123  ;  characteristics  of,  123  ; 


736 


INDEX 


works  of,  123-124  ;  mention  of, 
115,  158,  422.  For  poem,!'  — 
The  Deserted  Village,  see  title 
under  this  index 

Go,  Lovely  Rose,  text  of,  ^8-59  ; 
note  on,  602 

Good-Night,  Babette,  text  of,  454- 
456  ;   notes  on,  722 

GossE,  Edmund,  Ufe  and  criticism 
of,  465-466  ;  works  of,  466  ; 
mention  of,  426,  450,  451,  453, 
468.  For  poem,  —  Lying  in  the 
Grass,  see  title  under  this  index 

Gower,  John,  6 

Grades  of  poetry,  Ixviii-  Ixxi 

Gray,  Thomas,  criticism  of,  116  ; 
life  and  works  of,  11 7-1 18  ;  men- 
tion of,  37,  IIS,  158,  422,  424, 
528.  For  poem,  —  Elegy  Written 
in  a  Country  Churchyard,  see  title 
under  this  index 

Greek  art  and  Uterature,  its  influ- 
ence on  Keats,  240,  677,  679 

Greene,  Robert,  38.     For  poem, 

—  Sephestia's  Song  to  Her  Child, 
see  title  under  this  index 

Grenfell,  Julian,  567.    For  poem, 

—  Into  Battle,  see  title  under  this 
index 

Gummere,    F.    B.,    translation    of 

Beowulf,  4 
Gunga    Din,     text    of,     497-499  ; 

notes  on.  725  ;  as  a  metrical  tale, 

lix 

Habington,  William,  55.  For 
poem,  —  Nox  Noctelndicat  Scien- 
tiam,  see  title  under  this  index 

Hallam,  Arthur,  subject  of  In 
Memoriam,  284,  285,  687 

Happy  Thought,  quoted  from  Stev- 
enson, 473 

Harmony  in  verse :  rhyme,  xliii- 
xlvi 

Harvestmen  a-Singing,  text  of,  42  ; 
note  on,  600  ;  as  a  song,  Iv 

Henley,  William  Ernest,  life  of, 
468-469  ;  mention  of,  345,  450, 
451,  452,  480,  508  ;  criticism  and 
works  of,  469-470.     For  poems, 

—  /  Am  the  Captain  of  My  Soul, 


and  the  selections  from  In  Hospi- 
tal —  Enter  Patient  and  Waiting, 
see  titles  under  this  index 

Heptameter,  xxxiv 

Herbert,  George,  criticism  of,  54- 
55,  508.  For  poem,  —  Virtue, 
see  title  under  this  index 

Heroic  character,  in  narrative 
poetry,  —  epic,  ballad,  romance, 
etc.,  Ivii-lxi  ;   in  tragedy,  Ixiii 

Heroic  couplet,  xlvi  ;  Macaulay's 
characterization  of,  98-99 

Heroic  idyll,  the,  Ixi 

Heroic  verse,  xxxv,  xlvi 

Herrick,  Robert,  characterization 
and  criticism  of,  54,  135.  For 
poems,  —  Gather  Ye  Rosebuds 
While  Ye  May  and  To  Dafodils, 
see  titles  under  this  index 

Hexameter,  xxxiv,  xxxv,  xxxvi 

Highland  Mary,  text  of,  142-143  ; 
notes  on,  641-642  ;  as  a  song,  140 

Highwayman,  The,  text  of,  551-555 

Hind  and  the  Panther,  The.  91 

His  tori  a  Re  gum  Britanniae,  352 

Historical  Associations,  text  of,  477- 
478  _      ' 

Homer,  text  of,  461-462  ;  criticism 
of,  460 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad,  text 
of,  311  ;  criticism  of,  690  ;  notes 
on,  690 

Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea,  text 
of,  311  ;  criticism  of,  690  ;  notes 
on,  690 

Horatius,  text  of,  264-283  ;  char- 
acterization of,  263,  264  ;  re- 
marks on,  679-680  ;  notes  on, 
680-684  ;  imaginative  quality  of, 
xxv-xxvi  ;  stanzaic  structure  of, 
xlix  ;  word  sounds  in,  xlii  ;  as  a 
ballad,  Iviii 

Horse,  The,  text  of,  559-560 

Housman,  A.  E.,  450,  451 

Hous  of  Fame,  7 

Hudibras,  as  a  mock  epic,  Iviii 

Hugo,  Victor,  influence  on  Swin- 
burne, 444,  445* 

Hunt,  Holman,  and  the  Pre-Rapha- 
elile  movement,  423,'424 

Hunt,   Leigh,    criticism   of,    204  • 


INDEX 


737 


friendship  with  Keats,  241.     For 

poem,  —  Abou    Ben   Adhem,   see 

title  under  this  index 
Hymn  on  the  Nativity,  64 
Hymn  to  A'ftemis,  444 
Hymn  to  Diana,  text  of,  51  ;   notes 

on,  6oi 
Hymn  to  Proserpine,  445 
Hyperbole,  xxviii 
Hypercatalectic  ending,  xl 
Hyperion,  241 

Iamb,  or  iambus,  xxxiii,  xxxiv, 
xxxvi  ;  with  the  anapaest  as  a 
substitute,  xxxvi 

Iambic  hexameter:  see  Alexandrine, 
the 

Iambic  metres,  xxxiv 

Iambic  pentameter,  xxxv 

I  am  The  Captain  of  My  Soul,  text 
of,  470-471  ;    note  on,  724 

Ideal,  definition  of  the,  xxxi  ;  ideal 
worth  in  poetry,  Ixix,  Ixxi 

Idyll,  the,  Ix-lxi 

Idylls  of  the  King,  origin  of,  29  ; 
significance  of,  353  ;  criticism  of, 
286,  353-354,  368-369  ;  history 
of,  352-353  ;  story  of  The  Coming 
of  Arthur,  708-711  ;  persons  and 
places  of  the,  711- 713  ;  chief 
events  narrated  in  the,  713-714  ; 
time  occupied  by  the,  713-714  ; 
poetical  nature  and  form  of  the, 
714  ;  as  examples  of  the  heroic 
idyll,  Ixi.  For  the  two  Idylls  in 
this  book  —  Lancelot  and  Elaine 
and  The  Passing  of  Arthur,  see 
titles  under  this  index 

If,  text  of,  499-500  ;  notes  on,  725  ; 
stanzaic  structure  of,  xlix 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death, 
text  of,  572-573 

I  Have  Loved  Flowers  that  Fade, 
text  of,  463-464  ;  notes  on,  723 

Iliad,  Pope's  translation  of,  loi  ; 
Chapman's  translation  of,  241, 
679  ;  Lang's  translation  of,  460  ; 
as  a  folk -epic,  Iviii 

I  Love  All  Beauteous  Things,  text 
of,  464  ;  notes  on,  723  ;  Stan- 
zaic structure  of,  xlix 


n  Penseroso  :  see  Penseroso,  II 

Images,  reproduced  and  created, 
xxvi-xxviii,  Ixx  ;  figures  of  poetry, 
XX  vii- xxviii 

Imagination,  xxv  -xxvi  ;  in  relation 
to  the  grades  of  poetry,  —  in- 
ter pretative  and  creative,  Ixix- 
kxi 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp,  text 
of,  309-310  ;  notes  on,  689-690  ; 
as  a  dramatic  lyric,  Ivii 

In  Flanders  Fields,  text  of,  577  ; 
when  written,  567 

Ingratitude  {Blow,  blow,  thou  winter 
wind),  text  of,  47  ;  note  on,  601  ; 
stanzaic  structure  of,  xlix 

In  Hospital,  reference  to,  469,  470  : 
see  subtitles  underlf^this  index,  — 
Enter  Patient  and  Waiting 

Initial  rhyme  :   see  Alliteration 

In  Memoriam,  Proem  from,  text  of, 
303-304  ;  topic,  and  criticism  of, 
229,  285,  687-688  ;  as  an  elegy, 
286,  484,  670,  Ivi  ;  notes  on,  687- 
688  ;  stanzaic  structure  of,  688, 
xlviii-xlix  ;  as  interpretative 
poetry,  Ixix 

In  Mercer  Street,  characterization 
of,  562  :  see  subtitles  under  this 
index,  —  A  Piper  and  Lark's 
Song 

Innuendo,  xxviii 

Internal  rhyme,  xliv 

Interpretative  poetry,  Ixix-lxxi 

Intimations  of  Immortality  from 
Recollections  of  Early  Childhood, 
Ode  on,  text  of,  1 65-1 71  ;  men- 
tion of,  159,  160  ;  underlying 
thought  of,  648-649  ;  notes  on, 
649-651  ;  as  an  ode,  li,  Iv  ;  as 
interpretative  poetry,  bcix 

Into  Battle,  text  of.  569-570 

Introduction  to  Songs  of  Innocence, 
text  of,  136 

Irish  poetry,  modem,  504,  562 

Irony,  xxviii 

Italian  influence  on  English  litera- 
ture, 5,  29,  90 

Iteration,  xxviii 

It  Is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Cairn  and 
Free,  text  of,  175  ;  circums«:ances 


738 


INDEX 


of  writing,  characterization,  and 
notes  on,  653 
I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud,  text 
of,  172-173  ;  estimate  of,  160  ; 
circumstances  of  writing,  and 
notes  on,  652  ;  stanzaic  structure 
of,  xlix  ;  as  a  simple  lyric,  Ivi 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  100,  114,  115, 
123 

JoNSON,  Ben,  32,  38,  53,  501.  For 
poems,  —  Song  to  Celia,  Hymn  to 
Diana,  and  Simplex  Munditiis, 
see  titles  under  this  index 

Judgment,  the,  of  poetry,  Ixvi-lxxi 

Juggling  Jerry,  text  of,  347-349  ; 
criticism  of,  701  ;  notes  on,  701- 
702 

Jungle  Books,  The,  4Q2 

Keats,  John,  criticism  of,  240-241  ; 
life  of,  241  ;  works  of,  241-242  ; 
mention  of,  37,  99,  157,  158,  205, 
227,  229,  263,  284,  307,  422,  424, 
42s,' 508,  509,  529  ;  influence  of 
Greek  art  upon,  240,  241,  677, 
679.  For  poems,  —  The  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes,  Ode  to  a  Nightingale, 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  La  Belle 
Dame  sans  Merci,  and  the  sonnet, 
On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 
Homer,  see  titles  under  this  index 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  life  and  works 
of,  491-495  ;  criticism  of,  492- 
495';]  mention  of,  450,  451,  452, 
469,  470,  528,  541,  566.  For 
poems,  —  Mandalay,  Gunga  Din, 
If,  When" Earth's  Last  Picture  Is 
Painted,  Recessional,  and  For  All 
We  Have  and  Are,  see  titles  under 
this  index 

Know  Ye  the  Land,  text  of,  226  ; 
characterization  of,  208 ;  notes 
on,  667 

Kubla  Khan  :  or  a  "N^sion  in  a 
Dream,  text  of,  198-200  ;  criti- 
cism of,  177  ;  circumstances  of 
composition,  177,  661  ;  notes  on, 
661 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  text  of, 


259-261  ;  criticism  of,  678  ; 
Rossetti's  favorite  poem,  425  ; 
stanzaic  structure  of,  xlviii  ;  as  a 
ballad,  Iviii 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The,  text  of,  294- 
299  ;  remarks  on,  686  ;  notes  on, 
686  ;  as  a  forerunner  of  the 
Idylls  of  the  King,  368,  686 

Lady  of  the  Lake,  The,  157  ;  as  a 
metrical  romance,  lix 

Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,  The,  text 
of,  504-505  ;  criticism  of,  504  ; 
note  on,  726  ;  as  a  simple  lyric, 
Ivi 

L'Allegro  :  see  Allegro,  L' 

Lamb,  Charles,  account  of,  202- 
203  ;  mention  of,  176,  422,  454. 
For  poem,  —  The  Old  Familiar 
Faces,  see  title  under  this  index 

Lamb,  Mary,  202-203 

Lancelot  and  Elaine,  text  of,  369- 
408  ;  position  among  the  Idylls, 
368,  369,  714  ;  notes  on,  714-716 

Land  of  Counterpane,  The,  text 
of,  475  ;  stanzaic  structure  of, 
xhdii 

Lang,  Andrew,  criticism  and  works 
of,  459-460  ;  life  of,  460  ;  men- 
tion of,  450,  451,  462,  465  ;  his 
use  of  the  ballade,  liii-liv.  For 
poems,  —  Ballade  of  Middle  Age 
and  his  sonnet.  Homer,  see  titles 
under  this  index 

Langland,  William,  5-6 

Lark's  Song,  text  of,  564-565  ; 
characterization  of,  562 

Latin,  element  of,  in  English 
language,  i,  2,  4  ;  element  of,  in 
early  English  literature,  3  (foot- 
note) ;  element  of,  in  language  of 
Gaul,  2 

Laureate,  an  uncrowned,  493  ;  see 
poet  laureate 

Laus  Deo,  text  of,  464  ;  notes  on, 
723 

Layamon,  353 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  157 

Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  263,  264,  329 

Legende  of  Good  Women,  7 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air,  a  personally 
emotional  lyric,  Ixix 


INDEX 


739 


Lintot's  Miscellany,  containing  The 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  102 
Listeners,  The,  518,  519 
Literature,   in  general,   xxiii-xxiv  ; 

practical,    xxiii  ;     artistic,    xxiii  ; 

creative,  xxiii-xxiv 
Little  Bird,  The,  text  of,  519  ;  allu- 
sion to,  518  ;  as  a  narrative  lyric, 

Ivii 
Little  Green  Orchard,  The,  text  of, 

520  ;  allusion  to,  518 
London,  1802  [To  Milton],  text  of, 

174  ;    notes  on  and  criticism  of, 

653 

Lonely  God,  The  {A  Selection), 
text  of,  557-559  ;  characteriza- 
tion of.  556  ; ,  note  on,  728 

Long  metse  (L.  M.).,  xlviii 

Lovelace,  Richard,  55.  For 
poem,  —  To  Lucasta  on  Going  to 
the  Wars,  see  title  under  this 
index 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  compari- 
sonjof  with  Arnold,  354-355;  com- 
parison of  an  American  poet  with 
English  poets,  354-355,  vii  ; 
criticism  of,  354-355,  356-357  ; 
life  of,  355-357  ;  career  as  dip- 
lomat, 356  ;  works  of,  355-357- 
For  poem,  —  The  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal,  see  title  under  this  index 

Lycidas,  text  of,  75-80  ;  when  and 
where  written,  65  ;  as  an  elegy, 
229,  484,  670  ;  discussion  of,  and 
circumstances  of  composition, 
612  ;  notes  on,  612-616  ;  as  in- 
terpretative poetry,  Ixix 

Ljring  in  the  Grass,  text  of,  466- 
468  ;  as  an  idyll,  Ixi  ;  stanzaic 
structure  of,  xlvii 

Lyly,  John,  38.  For  poem, 
Apelles'  Song,  see  title  under  this 
index 

Lyrical  Ballads,  156,  157-158,  160, 
442,  653-655 

Lyric  poetry,  definition,  character- 
istics, and  origin  of,  liv-lv  ;  kinds 
of,  Iv-lvii  ;  metrical  pause  in, 
xxxviii 

Lyrics,  of  Eliabethan  poets,  38- 
39  ;  of  Cavalier  poets,  54-56 


Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington, 
criticism  of,  262-263  ;  life  and 
works  of,  263-264  ;  pubhc  serv- 
ices of,  263.  For  poem,  — 
Horatius,  see  title  under  this 
index 

Maeterlinck,  his  influence  on  Yeats, 
504 

Making  of  Man,  The,  text  of,  446- 
447  ;  criticism  of,  444,  721  ; 
notes  on,  721 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  29,  353,  368, 
431 

Mandalay,  text  of,  495-497  ;  notes 
on,  725 

Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That,  A,  text  of, 
146-147  ;  estimate  of,  140,  643  ; 
notes  on,  643 

Map,  Walter,  and  the  Arthurian 
story,  353 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  31,  32, 
38,  509.  For  poem,  —  The  Pas- 
sionate Shepherd  to  His  Love,  see 
title  under*this  index 

Marpessa  (Selections),  text  of,  509- 
516  ;  characterization  of,  508- 
509  ;  note  on,  726  ;  as  an  idyll, 
Ixi 

Martin's  Pvizzle,  text  of,  350-352  ; 
explanation  of,  702  ;  notes  on, 
702 

Masculine  caesura,  the,  xxxix 

Masculine  rhyme,  xliv 

Masefield,  John,  life  of,  526-527  ; 
criticism  and  works  of,  527-528  ; 
debt  to  Chaucer,  527  ;  sources  of 
inspiration,  528-529  ;  mention  of, 
517,  566.  For  poems,  —  A  Con- 
secration, Selections  from  Dauber, 
and  Cargoes,  see  titles  under  this 
index 

Masque,  the,  Ixv 

McCrae,  John,  567  ;  mention  of, 
vii.  For  poem,  —  In  Flanders 
Fields,  see  ritle  under  this  index 

Melodrama,  the,  Ixv 

Melody,  the,  of  word-sounds,  xli- 
xliii  ;  in  relation  to  natural 
sounds,  xli  ;  in  relation  to  emo- 
tions and  moods,  xli  ;  how  pro- 
duced, xli  ;   pleasant  sounds,  xli- 


740 


INDEX 


xlii  ;     unpleasant    sounds,    xlii  ; 
sequences,  xlii-xliii 

Men  and  Women,  307 

Merchant  of  Venice,  The,  as  a  recon- 
ciling drama,  Ixiv 

Meredith,  George,  criticism  of, 
344-345  ;  life  of,  345-346  ;  works 
of,  344,  346  ;  as  a  novelist,  346  ; 
mention  of,  425, 445, 446, 450,  451 . 
For  poems,  —  Juggling  Jerry  and 
Martinis  Puzzle,  see  titles  under 
this  index 

Messages,  The,  text  of,  571-572 

Metaphor,  xxvii 

Metonomy,  xxviii 

Metre,  xxxiii-xli  ;  definition  of, 
xxxiii  ;  kinds  of,  xxxiv-xxxvi  ; 
how  varied,  xxxvi-xli 

Metrical  pause,  xxxvii-xxxviii 

Metrical  romance,  the,  430,  lix 

Middle-rhyme  :   see  Assonance 

Midnight,  text  of,  561 

Millais,  John,  and  the  Pre-Raphae- 
lite movement,  423 

Milton,  John,  criticism  of,  64  ; 
life  of,  64-66  ;  early  lyrics  of, 
including  sonnets,  64-65  ;  prose 
essays  of,  65  ;  political  life  of,  65  ; 
epics  of,  65-66  ;  mention  of,  32,  35, 
37,  S3,  55,  63,  100,  157,  158,  160, 
229,  263,  354,  462,  508,  509.  For 
poems,  —  V Allegro,  II  Penseroso, 
Lycidas,  Selections  from  Paradise 
Lost,  and  the  sonnets  —  On  His 
Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of 
Twenty-Three,  To  the  Lord  Gen- 
eral Cromwell,  and  On  His  Blind- 
ness, see  titles  under  this  index 

Miss  Loo,  text  of,  525-526 

Mock  epic,  the,  Iviii 

Mock-heroic  poem  :  see  Mock  epic, 
the 

Modern  epic,  the,  Iviii 

Monometer,  xxxiv 

Morris,  William,  criticism  of,  430- 
433  ;  life  of,  431-432  ;  his  artis- 
tic ability  and  its  practical  appli- 
cation, 432  ;  his  interest  in  So- 
cialism, 432  ;  mention  of,  37, 
240,  422,  423,  424,  425,  426,  444, 
450,  451,  491,  529.     For  poems, 


—  An  Apology  and  The  Writing 

on    the   Image    (both    from    The 

Earthly  Paradise),  see  titles  under 

this  index 
Morte  Darthur,  of  Mallory,  29,  353, 

431 
Morte  d' Arthur,  of  Tennyson,  285, 

368  _ 
"  Music  of  the  spheres,"  607 
My  Heart  Leaps  up  When  I  Behold, 

text  of,  171  ;  notes  on,  652  ;   as  a 

reflective  lyric,  Ivi 
My  Last  Duchess,  text  of,  312-313  ; 

story  of,  691  ;  notes  on,  691-692  ; 

as  a  dramatic   monologue,    691, 

Ixii 
My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is,  text 

of,  39-40  ;  notes  on,  599-600 

Narrative  lyric,  the,  Ivii 

Narrative  poetry,  its  nature  and 
kinds,  Ivii-lxii 

Newbolt,  Henry,  450 

"  New  poetry,"  the,  451  ;  "  free 
verse  "  of,  470 

New  Romantic  poetry,  the,  its 
characteristics,  116,  156  ;  com- 
parison of  with  the  Classical 
school,  115,  156,  158 

Nicholas  Nye,  text  of,  521-522  ; 
reference  to,  518  ;  notes  on,   726 

Nine-line  stanza,  1 

Norman-French  conquest  of  Eng- 
land, 3  ;  element  in  the  English 
language,  3,  5 

Norris,  Frank,  470 

Northmen,  attacks  upon  Britain, 
2  ;  conquest  of  Gaul,  2 

Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientiam,  text 
of,  59-60  ;  notes  on,  602 

NoYES,  Alfred,  account  of,  541  ; 
criticism  and  works  of,  541-542  ; 
mention  of,  517,  566-567.  For 
poems,  —  The  Barrel-Organ,  The 
Admiral's  Ghost,  and  The  High- 
wayman, see  titles  under  this 
index 


Occasional  poem,  the,  627 

Ocean,  The  (from  Childe  Harold's 


INDEX 


741 


Pilgrimage),  text  of,  224-225  ; 
criticism  of,  666-667  ;  notes  on, 
667 

Octameter,  xxxiv 

Octave  of  the  sonnet,  U 

Ode,  the,  1-li,  Iv 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 

I*  College,  117,  118 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  text  of,  257- 
259  ;  remarks  on,  242,  677  ; 
notes  on,  677-678  ;  as  a  reflective 
lyric,  Ivi 

Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality  : 
^e.  Intimations  of  Immortality 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  a  modern,  irregular 
ode,  li 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  text  of,  254- 
257  ;  estimate  of,  242  ;  circum- 
stances of  composition,  676  ; 
notes  on,  676-677  ;  as  a  reflec- 
tive lyric,  Ivi 

Ode  to  Duty.  159 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  228 

Odyssey,  translation  of,  by  Pope, 
1 01  ;  by  Morris,  432  ;  by  Lang, 
460  ;  as  a  folk-epic,  Iviii 

(Enone,  text  of,  286-293  ;  myth  of, 
684  ;  circumstances  of  composi- 
tion, 684  ;  notes  on,  684-686  ;  as 
a  dramatic  monologue,  Ixii 

Of  A'  the  Airts  the  Wind  Can 
Blaw,  text  of,  142  ;  circum- 
stances of  writing,  and  subject, 
641  ;   notes  on,  641 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The,  text  of, 
203  ;   remarks  on,   203 ;    circum- 
stances of  writing,  and  explana- 
tion, 661 
Old  French  forms  of  verse,  453,  459, 

469,  lii-liv 
Old  Susan,  text  of,  526  ;   reference 

to,  518 
On  Another's  Sorrow  (from  Songs  of 

Innocence),  text  of,  136-137 
On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 
Homer,  text  of,  261  ;  criticism  of, 
678-679  ;  circumstances  of  com- 
position, 679  ;  notes  and  ques- 
tions on,  679  ;  structure,  li 
On   His   Blindness,    text   of,    88  ; 


time   of    composition,    623-624  ; 

notes  on,  624  ;   structure,  li 
On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age 

of    Twenty-three,    text   of,    87  ; 

circumstances     of     composition, 

622-623  ;   notes  on,  623 
Onomatopoeia,  xli 
Onomatopoetic    effects    in    poetry, 

624-625 
On    the    Tombs    in    Westminster 

Abbey,  text  of,  52  ;  notes  on,  601 
Origins  of   the   English   Language, 

1-4 

O'SuLLivAN,  Seumas,  pseudonym  of 
James  Starkey,  517  ;  criticism  and 
works  of,  561-562.  For  poems, 
—  The  Ballad  of  the  Fiddler,* A 
Piper,  and  Lark's  Song  (from  In 
Mercer  Street),  Patrick's  Close, 
and  The  Funerals,  see  titles  under 
this  index 

Ottava  rima,  xlix 

Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine, 
425,432 

Oxford,  in  relation  to  English 
poetry  and  poets,  5,  30,  228,  330, 
331,  431,  444,  460,  462,  507,  541 

Ozymandias,  text  of,  239  ;  criticism 
of,  672  ;  notes  on,  672 

Paeon,  xxxiii,  xxxv 

Palace,  The,  underlying  thought  of, 

494 

Paradise  Lost  (Selections  from), 
text  of  80-87  ;  criticism  of,  65- 
66,  616-618  ;  circumstances  of 
composition,  618  ;  plot  of,  618- 
619  ;  characters  in,  619  ;  notes 
on,  619--622  ;  as  a  modern  epic, 
Iviii 

Paradise  Regained,  66 

Passing  of  Arthur,  text  of,  409-422  ; 
place  among  the  Idylls,  369,  714  ; 
original  form  of,  368,  369,  716  ; 
notes  on,  716-718 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love, 
The,  text  of,  43-44  ;  notes  on, 
600  ;   stanzaic  structure  of,  xlviii 

Pastorals,  Ix-lxi 

Patrick's  Close,  text  of,  565  ;  sig- 
nificance of,  562 


742 


INDEX 


Patriot,  The  :  An  Old  Story,  text  of, 
3 1 0-3 1 1  ;  notes  on  and  explana- 
tion of,  690  ;  as  a  narrative  lyric, 
Ivii 

Pause,  variety  of,  xxxvii-xxxix  ; 
metrical,  xxxvii-xxxviii  ;  rhyth- 
mical or  caesural,  xxxviii-xxxix 

Peacock  Pie,  Poems  from,  518  :  see 
subtitles  under  this  index,  — 
The  Little  Bird,  The  Little  Green 
Orchard,  Nicholas  Nye,  Poor 
"  Miss  7,"  Tit  for  Tat,  The 
Truants,  and  All  but  Blind 

Peele,  George,  38.  For  poem,  — 
Harvestmen  a-Singing,  see  title 
under  this  index 

Peftseroso,  D,  text  of,  70-74  ;  criti- 
cism of,  65,  603  ;  notes  on,  607- 
611  ;  as  a  reflective  lyric,  Ivi 

Pentameter,  xxxiv 

Percy's,  Bishop,  Reliques  of  Ancient 
Poetry,  115 

Personal  song,  Iv 

Personification,  xxvii 

Petrarch,  5,  7  ;  deviser  of  the  son- 
net, 30 

Phillips,  Stephen,  account  of, 
507  ;  works  of,  507-509  ;  criti- 
cism of,  508-509  ;  mention  of, 
450,  452.  For  poem,  —  Mar- 
Pessa,  see  title  under  this  index 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  as  an  allegory,  Ix 

Pindar,  the  form  of  his  odes,  1  ; 
imitated  by  Gray.  117 

Piper,  A,  text  of,  564  ;  significance 
of,  562 

Pippa  Passes,  Songs  from,  text  of, 
308-309  ;  story  and  underlying 
thought  of,  689  ;  notes,  on,  689  ; 
stanzaic  structure  of,  xlix 

Pity  and  terror  (or  fear)  in  tragedy, 
Ixiii 

Plea  for  Certain  Exotic  Forms  of 
Verse,  Dobson's,  453 

Plot,  in  drama,  Ixii-lxv  ;  in  tragedy, 
Ixii,  Ixiii  ;  in  the  romantic  play, 
Ixiv  ;  in  comedy  proper,  Ixii, 
Ixiii,  Ixiv  ;  in  the  farce,  Ixv  ;  in 
melodrama,  bcv  ;  in  the  masque, 
Ixv 

Foe,  Edgar  Allan,  influence  on  cer- 


tain English  poets,  425,  495, 
718 

Poem,  a,  as  a  whole,  how  to  judge 
its  worth,  Ixviii-lxxi 

Poetic  beauty,  xxx 

Poetic  diction,  xxviii-xxix 

Poetic  merit,  Arnold's  test  of,  Ixvi- 
Ixviii 

Poetic  truth,  xxvi,  Ixix,  Ixxi 

Poet    laureate,  Dryden,        91  ; 

Southey,  159  ;  Wordsworth,  159, 
285  ;  Tennyson,  285  ;  Bridges, 
462 

Poetry,  xxiv-xxxi,  et  passim;  defi- 
nition of,  xxiv  ;  form  of,  — 
rhythm  and  verse,  xxxi-liv;  kinds 
of,  liv-bcvi  ;  judgment  of,  Ixvi- 
Ixxi  ;  lyric,  liv-lvii  ;  narrative, 
Ivii-lxii  ;  poetry  by  action,  — 
drama,  Ixii-lxv  ;  didactic  poetry, 
Ixv-lxvi  ;  means  of,  xxv  ;  pur- 
pose of,  xxv,  xxxi ;  subjects  of, 
xxv  ;  study  of,  xxiii-lxxi 

Poetry  of  Chivalry,  352-354 

Poets  whom  Spenser  has  influenced, 

37 
Poor  "  Miss  7,"  text  of,  522-523  ; 

significance  of,  518 
Pope,  Alexander,  influence  of,  99  ; 

service    to    English    poetry,    99- 

100  ;      criticism     of,     loo-ioi  ; 

compared    with    Dryden,     100 ; 

life  of,  101-102  ;    works  of,  loi- 

103  ;    mention   of,    55,    99,  114, 

115,    116,    139,    140,    284.     For 

poems,  —  The    Rape  of  the  Lock 

and    The    Universal  Prayer,    see 

titles  under  this  index 
Portrait,  The,  424,  425 
Pre-Elizabethan  Era,  the,  30-31 
Prelude,  The,  159 
Pre-Raphaelite  movement,  423,  424, 

425,  430,  432.  445,  504 
Princess,  The,  Songs  from,  text  of, 

301-303  ;   notes  on  and  criticism 

of,  687 
Princeton  (1917),  text  of,  577-579  5 

mention  of,  542,  566-567 
Printing   press,   invention   of,    29  ; 

introduction    into    England,    29, 

353 


INDEX 


743 


Prior,  Matthew,  453 

Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The,  text  of, 
208-219  ;  characterization  of, 
206  ;  circumstances  of  composi- 
tion, 207,  662  ;  identity  of,  662  ; 
notes  on,  662-664 

Progress  of  Poetry,  The,  as  an  ode,  1 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales, 
text  of,  8-27  ;  when  written,  7  ; 
metrical  system  of,  582  ;  pro- 
nvmdation  of,  581-582  ;  notes  on, 
583-597  ;  as  a  descriptive  poem, 
Jxi 

Prometheus  Unbound.  229  :  see 
subtitles  under  this  index,  — 
The  Spirit  of  Poetry,  and  The 
Glory  of  Prometheus 

Prose,  an  instrument  of  literature, 
xxiii,  xxiv,  xxxiii  ;  compared  with 
verse,  xxxii-xxxiii 

Prospice,  text  of,  327-328  ;  criti- 
cism and  analysis  of,  697  ;  notes 
on,  697  ;   as  a  reflective  lyric,  Ivi 

Prcthalamion,  33,  34 

Proverbs  in  Porcelain,  453,  460 

Puritan  influence  on  English  litera- 
ture, period  of,  53,  63  ;  extent  of, 
63  ;  limits  of,  63  ;  character- 
istics of,  63  ;  decline  of,  89 

Pjm-hic,  xxxiv 

Quatrain,  the  :  see  Four-line  stanza 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  text  of,  321-327  ; 
the  man,  694-695  ;  criticism  of, 
695  ;  notes  on,  695-697  ;  stanzaic 
structure  of,  xlix;  as  a  reflective 
lyric,  Ivi,  kii 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  34,  38  ; 
influence  on  Spenser,  33.  For 
poems,  —  A  Vision  upon  this 
Conceit  of  the  Faery  Queen  and 
The  Conclusion,  see  titles  under 
this  index 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The,  text  of,  103- 
112  ;  when  written,  loi  ;  char- 
acterization of,  102  ;  comparison 
of  editions,  102-103  ;  discussion 
of,  102-103  ■  circumstances  of 
composition,  626-62^  ;  notes  on, 
627-632  ;  couplets  in,  xlvi-xlvii  • 


as  a  mock  epic,  627,  Iviii  ;  as  a 
social  satire,  627,  Ixvi 

Reaction  from  the  Classical  school, 
nature  of  the,  114  ;  first  phase  of 
the,  115  ;  second  phase  of  the, 
115-116 

Recessional,  text  of,  501-502  ; 
criticism  and  discussion  of,  493, 
495  ;  circumstances  of  composi- 
tion, 725  ;  notes  on,  725-726  ; 
stanzaic  structure  of,  xlix 

Reconciling  drama  :  see  Romantic 
play,  the 

Red,  Red  Rose,  A,  text  of,  147  ; 
origin  of  song,  643  ;  criticism  of 
and  note  on,  643  ;  as  a  song,  140, 
Iv 

Reflective  lyric,  the,  Ivi 

Reflective  poems,  Ixvi 

Refrain,  the,  xlv-xlvi 

Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  115 

Renaissance  in  England,  28-29,  30 

Requiem,  text  of,  479  ;  as  a  memo- 
rial of  its  author,  473 

Requiescat,  text  of,  343-344  ;  when 
written,  331  ;  criticism  of  and 
note  on,  701 

Restoration,  the,  date  of,  53  ;  Age 
of  the,  characteristics  of,  89-90  ; 
morals  of,  63,  89  ;  literary  taste 
of,  89-90 

Retreat,  text  of,  571 

Retreat,  The,  text  of,  61-62  ;  notes 
on,  602 

Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  The,  text  of, 
173  ;  criticism  of,  160  ;  circum- 
stances of  composition,  652  ; 
notes  on,  652 

Rhyme,  definition  and  kinds  of, 
xliii-xlvi  ;  conditions  necessary 
to,  xliv  ;  masculine,  xliv  ;  fem- 
inine, xliv  ;  internal,  xliv  ;  ini- 
tial, xlv  ;  middle,  xlv  ;  relation  to 
harmony  in  verse,  xliii 

Rhyme  proper  :  see  End-rhyme 

Rhyme  royal,  528,  xlix 

Rhythm,  xxxi-xxxii  ;  definition  of, 
A^xxii  ^  a  law  of  the  mind,  xxxii  ; 
m  verse,  x^sii. 

Rhythmical  pause  :  see  Caesural 
pause 


744 


INDEX 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  :   see 

Ancient  Mariner 

Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  307-308 

Romans,  early  conquests :  of  Britain, 
I  ;   of  Gaul,  2 

Romantic  movement,  completion 
of  the,  422-424 

Romantic  play,  the,  Ixiv 

Rondeau,  the,  lii,  453  ;  example  of, 
458 

Rondel,  the,  lii,  453  ;  example  of, 
457-458 

Rose  Crossed  the  Road  {Triolet), 
text  of,  457  r  notes  on,  722  ; 
structure  of,  liii 

Rossetti,  Christina,  425 

RossETTi,  Dante  Gabriel,  criti- 
cism of,  424  ;  life  and  works  of, 
425-426  ;  and  the  Pre-Raphael- 
ite movement,  423  ;  mention  of, 
37,  422,  423,  424,  431,  432,  444, 
445,  450,  451,  491.  For  poem,  — 
The  Blessed  Damozel,  see  title 
under  this  index 

Rossetti,  William,  425.  445 

Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyim,  the, 
xlviii-xlix 

Run-on  line,  the,  xlvi-xlvii  . 

Rugby  Chapel,  text  of,  336-342  ; 
basis  of  poem,  698-700  ;  notes 
on,  700  ;  metrical  and  rhyme 
effects,  xl-xli,  xlv 


Sackville,  use  of  blank  verse  in  first 

EngUsh  tragedy,  31 
Salvage,  text  of,  572 
Samson  Agonistes,  66 
Sandys,  George,  a  writer  of  religious 

verse,  55 
Satire,  social,  personal,  and  political, 

Ixv-lxvi 
Saul,  306,  308 

Saxons,  West,  language  of,  2 
Scandinavian  Uterature,  translations 

of  by  Gosse,  465 
Scansion,  definition  of,  xxxiv 
Scholar  Gipsy,  The,  331 
Scholasticism  of  the  Middle  Ages, 

end  of  the,  28-29 
Scotch,    Lowland,    identical    with 


Northern  English  dialect,  5  ;  the 
language  of  Burns,  5, 139, 140-141 

Scots  Wha  Hae,  text  of,  145-146  ; 
topic  of  song,  642  ;  criticism  of, 
642  ;  notes  on,  642-643  ;  stan- 
zaic  structure  of,  642,  xlviii  ;  as 
a  song,  140,  Iv 

Scottish  universities,  rise  of,  28 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  his.  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,  157  ;  his  relation 
to  his  time,  157  ;  criticism  of, 
157  ;  mention  of,  176,  262,  422, 
424 

Sea  Dirge,  A,  text  of,  49  ;  note  on, 
601 

Seasons,  The,  criticism  of,  115  ;  as 
reflective-descriptive  poetry,  Ixi 

Seeger,  Alan,  account  of,  567  ; 
mention  of,  vii.  For  poem,  — 
/  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death, 
see  title  under  this  index 

Seer,  the  poet  as,  Ixix,  Ixxi 

Senarius,  the  :  see  Alexandrine,  the 

Sephestia's  Song  to  Her  Child,  text 
of,  42-43  ;  notes  on,  600 

Sestet  in  sonnet,  li 

Seven-line  stanzas,  xlix 

Shakespeare,  William,  his  posi- 
tion in  English  Uterature,  32  ; 
metre  of  his  plays,  31  ;  his  son- 
nets, 600-601  ;  mention  of,  6,  7, 
39,  64,  140,  157,  206,  262,  306, 
354,  481,  528,  541.  For  poems, 
—  Three  Sonnets  —  xxix,  xxx, 
and  cxvi,  and  Nine  Songs  — 
Winter,  Who  is  Silvia,  Under  the 
Greenwood  Tree,  Ingratitude,  Dirge 
of  Love,  Aubade,  The  Fairy  Life, 
A  Sea  Dirge,  and  Ariel's  Song,  see 
titles  under  this  index 

Shakesperian  Sonnet,  the,  li 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  compari- 
son with  Byron,  205  ;  criticism  of, 
227-228,  229  ;  Ufe  and  works  of, 
228-229  ;  mention  of,  157,  241, 
307,  422,  424,  425,  443,  444,  495, 
504.  For  poems,  —  To  a  Sky- 
lark, The  Cloud,  To  Night, 
Stanzas  from  Adonais,  The  Spirit 
of  Poetry  and  The  Glory  of 
Prometheus  —  both     from     Pro- 


INDEX 


745 


metheus  Unbound,  and  the  sonnet, 

Ozymandias,  see  titles  under  this 

index 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  124 
She  Walks  in  Beauty,  text  of,  226- 

227  ;   estimate  of,  208  ;   note  on, 

667  ;    stanzaic  structure  of,  xlix 
Shirley,    James,    criticism   of   his 

lyric,     55.       For     poem,  —  The 

Glories  of  Our  Blood  and  State,  see 

title  under  this  index 
Short  metre  (S.  M.),  xlviii 
Sick  Child,  The,  text  of,  478-479 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  33,  34,  37,  38. 

For  poem,  —  A  Bargain,  see  title 

under  this  index 
Sigurd  the  Volsung,  431,  432  ;   as  a 

modern  epic,  Iviii 
Simile,  xxvii 
Simple  lyric,  the,  Iv-lvi 
Simplex  Munditiis,  text  of,  51-52  ; 

note  on,  601 
Six-line  stanzas,  xlix 
Slurring,  xl 
Social  revolt,   poets    of    the,   205  ; 

relation   to   revolutionary   spirit, 

205  ;    comparison  of  Byron  and 

Shelley,  205 
Sohrah  and  Rustum,  331 
Soldier,  The,  text  of,  573 
Solitary  Reaper,  The,  text  of,  171- 

172  ;     estimate   of,    160  ;     notes 

and  questions   on,   652;  stanzaic 

structure  of,  xlix 
Solution,  the,  in  drama,  Ixii-lxiii  ; 

catastrophe     in     tragedy,     Ixiii  ; 

averted  disaster  in  the  romantic 

play,  Ixiv  ;    denouement  in  com- 
edy, Ixiii,  Ixiv 
Song,  the,  Iv 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  624 
Songs    from    Pippa    Passes  :     see 

Pippa  Passes 
Songs  from  the  Princess  :   see  The 

Princess 
Songs  of  Innocence,   Introduction 

to  :    see  Introduction  to  Songs  of 

Innocence 
Song    to    Celia,    text    of,    50-51  ; 

note  on,  601  ;   stanzaic  structure 

of,  xlix 


Sonnet,  the,  origin  of,  30 ;  introduc- 
tion into  England,  30,  38  ;  de- 
velopment of,  38  ;  form  of,  622, 
li  ;  in  English  poetry,  li ;  nature 
of,  Ivi  ;  examples  of,  40,  44-45, 
87-88,  174-175,  239,  261,  461, 
471,  571,  573-574 

Sonnets,  of  Milton,  —  number,  65, 
622,  —  form,  622;  of  Words- 
worth, —  rank,  160,  652,  —  num- 
ber, 652  ;  of  Keats,  —  rank,  678- 
679  ;  comparison  of  the  three 
poets  as  writers  of  sonnets,  678- 
679  ;  of  various  poets,  examples 
of :  see  references  under  Sonnet, 
above 

Sonnets  of  Shakespeare,  three  — 
xxix,  XXX,  and  cxvi,  text  of,  44- 
45  ;  remarks  on,  600-601  ;  form 
of,  U 

Sound  in  verse,  xli-xlvi  ;  melody, 
xli-xliii  ;  harmony,  rhyme,  xUii- 
xlvi 

SouTHEY,  Robert,  criticism  and 
works  of,  200  ;  as  poet  laureate, 
159  ;  mention  of,  159,  176,  177, 
422;  for  poem,  —  The  Battle  of 
Blenheim,  see  title  under  this  index 

Spenser,  Edmund,  criticism  of,  32- 
33,  34,  35-36  ;  characterization 
of,  by  Arnold,  36,  by  Lowell,  2)7  \ 
life  of,  33  ;  works  of,  33-34  ; 
poets  whom  he  has  influenced,  37  ; 
mention  of,  38,  100,  157,  227,  240, 
284,  354.  For  stanzas  from  his 
poem,  —  The  Faerie  Queene,  see 
title  under  this  index 

Spenserian  stanza,  the,  115,  598, 
664,  669-670, 1 

Spirit  of  Poetry  (from  Prometheu:; 
Unbound),  text  of,  238-239  ; 
notes  on,  671 

Spondee,  xxxiv 

Stages,  of  dramatic  action,  Ixii-lxiii 

Stanza,  the,  xlvi-1  ;  relation  to  the 
verse  and  the  poem,  xlvi  ;  rela- 
tion to  harmony,  xlvii  ;  kinds  of, 
xlvi-1  :  couplet,  xlvi-xlvii  ; 
three-line,  xlvii  ;  four-line,  xlvii- 
xlix  ;  five-,  six-,  and  seven-line, 
xlix  ;  eight-line  and  more,  xlix-1 ; 


746 


INDEX 


method  of  representing  the 
rhyme-scheme  of,  xlvii,  1 

Starkey,  James,  real  name  of 
Seumas  O' Sullivan  :  see  O' Sul- 
livan under  this  index 

Stephens,  James,  criticism  and 
works  of,  556  ;  mention  of,  345, 
517,  562.  For  poems,  —  A  selec- 
tionjfrom  The  Lonely  God,  and 
selections  from  the  Adventures  of 
Seumas  Beg  —  The  Horse,  The 
Devil's  Bag,  A  Visit  from  Abroad, 
What  the  Snake  Saw,  and  Mid- 
night, see  titles  under  this  index 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  life  and 
works  of,  472-473  ;  his  self- 
training  as  writer,  472  ;  as  a 
writer  of  children's  verse,  473  ; 
his  Happy  Thought,  473  ;  men- 
tion of,  450,  451,  452,  469,  519, 
541.  For  poems,  —  The  Sick 
Child,  The  Requiem,  and  selec- 
tions from  A  Child's  Garden  of 
Verses  —  Travel,  The  Land  of 
Counterpane,  The  Wind,  The  Un- 
seen Playmate,  Armies  in  the 
Fire,  and  Historical  Associations, 
see  titles  under  this  index 

Story  of  a  Round  House,  The,  528 

Stress  in  verse,  xxxiii-xxxvi,  passim 

Structural  forms  of  verse,  —  ode, 
sonnet,  etc. :  see  Fixed  structure, 
poems  of 

Substituted  feet,  xxxvi-xxxvii 

Suckling,  Sir  John,  55.  For 
poem,  —  Why  so  Pale  and  Wan, 
Fond  Lover,  see  title  under 
this  index 

Supremely  poetic  line,  the,  as  a  test 
of  poetry,  Ixvi-lxviii 

Surrey,  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of,  30- 
31,  38  ;  his  blank  verse,  31 

Sweet  and  Low,  as  a  song,  Iv.  See 
Songs  from  the  Princess  under  this 
index 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles, 
criticism  of,  443-444  ;  Hfe  and 
works  of,  444-446  ;  supremacy 
in  musical  verse,  423,  444,  721  ; 
his  estimate  of  Coleridge,  659  ; 
mention  of,  37,  99,  240,  345,  422, 


423,  424,  425,  4SI.  462,  483,  495. 
For  poems,  —  The  Making  of 
Man  and  The  Garden  of  Proser- 
pine, see  titles  under  this  index 

Syllable-count,  variation  in  the, 
xxxix-xli  ;  added  syllables,  xxxix- 
xl  ;  lacking  syllables,  xl-xli 

Synecdoche,  xxvii-xxviii 

Syntax,  study  of,  importance  of,  in 
interpreting  literature,  604-605 

Taine,  estimate  of  Byron,  206 

Tale,  the,  lix 

Tam  0'  Shanter,  139,  140  ;  as  a  met- 
rical tale,  Ux 

Tempest,  The,  as  a  romantic  play, 
Ixiv 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  criticism 
of,  283-284,  286  ;  as  poet 
laureate,  285  ;  life  and  works  of, 
284-286  ;  mention  of,  116,  158, 
227,  229,  240,  305-306,  306-307, 
329,  344,  345,  354,  422,  423,  424, 
451,  483,  495,  509,  518.  For 
poems,  —  (Enone,  The  Lady  of 
Shalott,  Ulysses,  Break,  Break, 
Break,  Songs  from  The  Princess, 
Proem,from  In  Memoriam,  Flower 
in  the  Crannied  Wall,  and  Crossing 
the  Bar,  and  two  Idylls  of  the 
King  —  Lancelot  and  Elaine '  and 
The  Passing  of  Arthur,  see  titles 
under  this  index 

Tercets,  li,  liii 

Terza  rima,  xlvii 

Tests  of  poetry  :  see  Judgment  of 
poetry 

Tetrameter,  xxxiv 

Teutonic  basis  of  the  EngUsh 
language,  2,  5 

Theocritus,  Ixi 

"  Theory  of  Poetry,"  Wordsworth's, 
157-160,  654  ;   Arnold's  331 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The  Rape 
of  the  Lock,  etc.  :  see  Prisoner 
of  Chillon,  The,  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
The,  etc.  ;  and  likewise  with  all 
poems  commencing  with  "  The  " 

Thompson,  Francis  450,  452 

Thompson,  James,  debt  to  Spenser, 
37  ;     criticism    of,    115  ;     verse 


INDEX 


747 


formsof  poems,  115  ;  influence  of, 
422 

Three-line  stanzas,  xlvii 

Tintem  Abbey,  Lines  Composed  a 
Few  Miles  Above,  etc.,  text  of, 
160-164  'y  criticism  of,  646  ;  cir- 
cumstances of  composition,  646  ; 
notes  on,  647-648  ;  as  a  reflec- 
tive-descriptive poem,  Ixi  ;  as 
interpretative  poetry,  Ixix  ; 
"touchstones"  in,  Ixviii 

Tit  for  Tat,  text  of,  523 

To  a  Mouse,  text  of,  148-149  ; 
characterization  of,  140  ;  notes 
on,  643  ;  stanzaic  structure  of, 
xlix 

To  a  Nightingale  :  see  Ode  to  a 
Nightingale 

To  a  Skylark,  text  of,  229-232  ; 
circumstances  of  composition, 
667  ;  notes  on,  667-668  ;  stan- 
zaic structure  of,  xlix 

To  Daffodils,  text  of,  56  ;  note  on, 
601 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars, 
text  of,  61  ;  criticism  of,  602 

To  Marguerite,  text  of,  335-336; 
criticism  of,  699 

To  Night,  text  of,  235-236  ;  criti- 
cism of,  669  ;  notes  on,  669 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell, 
text  of,  88  ;  notes  on,  623 

To  the  True  Romance,  ideal  ex- 
pressed by,  494 

TotteVs  Miscellany,  first  volume  of 
collected  poems,  31  ;  nature  of  its 
lyrics,  31 

"  Touchstones,"  the,  Arnold's  use 
of,  in  testing  the  merit  of  poems, 
Ixvi-lxviii  ;  examples  of,  found 
in  this  volume,  Ixvii,  Ixviii 

Tragedy,  general  characteristics  of, 
Ixiii  ;  tragic  conflict,  characters, 
catastrophe,  pity  and  terror,  etc., 
Ixiii 

Travel,  text  of,  474-475 
Traveller,  The,  123 

Trimeter,  xxxiv 

Triolet,  the,  Uii,  453  ;    example  of, 

457 
Triplet,  the,  xlvii 


Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  criticism  of, 

445 
Trochee,  xxxiii,  xxxiv,  xxxv,  xxxvi- 

xxxvii 
Troilus  and  Criseyde,  7 
Truants,  The,  text  of,  524  ;    notes 

on,  726  ;  as  a  reflective  lyric,  Ivi 
Truncated  line,  xl  ;    trochaic  effect 

of,xl 
Twa  Dogs,  The,  criticism  of,  140 

Ulysses,  text  of,  299-301  ;  myth  of, 

686-687  ;    notes  on,  687  ;    as  a 

reflective  lyric,  Ivi  ;  as  a  dramatic 

monologue,  Ixii 
Under  the  Greenwood  Tree,  text  of, 

46-47  ;     note    on,    601  ;     as    a 

song,  Iv 
Universal  Prayer,  The,  text  of,  112- 

114  ;     characterization   of,    loi  ; 

notes  on  and  criticism  of,  632 
Unknown,  The,  text  of,  482-483  ; 

notes  on,  724 
Unseen    Playmate,    The,    text   of, 

476-477 

Vailima,  Samoan  home  of  Stevenson, 
473 

Vaughan,  Henry,  criticism  of,  54- 
55,  508.  For  poem,  —  The  Re- 
treat, and  the  selections  from  The 
World  and  from  Departed  Friends, 
see  titles  under  this  index 

Verse,  an  instrument  of  poetry, 
xxiv,  xxxii,  Ixv  ;  compared  with 
prose,  xxxii-xxxiii  ;  the  rhythm 
of,  xxxi-xxxvi  ;  definition  of, 
xxxiii  ;  sound  in,  xli-xlvi  ;  the 
larger  units  of  —  stanzas  and 
poems  of  fixed  structure,  xlvi-  liv 

Versified  thought  :  see  Didactic 
poetry 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The.  123-124 

Victorian  Age,  the,  The  Elder  Poets, 
characteristics  and  list  of,  261- 
262  ;  Poetry  of  Chivalry,  char- 
acteristics and  content,  352-354  ; 
Completion  of  the  Romantic 
Movement,  the  poets  and  their 
characteristics,     422-424  ;      The 


748 


INDEX 


Younger    Poets,    characteristics 

and  list  of,  450-452 
View  of  life,  the,  in  poetry,  xxiv, 

XXV,  XXX,  xxxi  ;    in  the  different 

kinds  of  poetry,  Uv-lxvi  passim  ; 

in   different   grades    of     poetry, 

Ixviii-lxxi 
Villanelle,  the,  liii,  453  ;  example  of, 

458-459 
Virtue,  text  of,  57  ;   notes  on,  601- 

602  ;  as  a  reflective  lyric,  Ivi 
Vision  upon    this  Conceit    of  the 

Faery    Queen,   A,    text  of,   40  ; 

notes  on,  600 
Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  The,  text  of, 

357-367  ;   criticism  of,  702-703  ; 

legend  underlying,  703  ;  notes  on, 

704-708 
Visit  from  Abroad,  A,  text  of,  560 
Vowels,    their       pleasant    and  un- 
pleasant sounds,  xli-xKii  ;    kinds 

of    sequence    of,    in    verse,    xlii- 

xliii 

Waiting,  text  of ,  471 

Waller,  Edmund,  estimate  of,  55. 
For  poem,  —  Go  Lovely  Rose,  see 
title  under  this  index 

Wanderer,  The  {Rondel),  text  of, 
457-458  ;  notes  on,  723  ;  struc- 
ture of,  lii 

Waterloo  (from  Childc  Harold's 
Pilgrimage),  text  of,  220-222  ; 
circumstances  of  composition, 
664  ;  notes  on,  664-665 

Watson,  Sir  William,  criticism  of, 
483-485  ;  works  of,  483-484  ;  as 
a  writer  of  elegy,  484  ;  as  a 
Uterary  critic  484-485  ;  mention 
of,  450,  452,  541.  For  poem, — 
Wordsworth's  Grave,  see  title 
under  this  index 

Weep  Not  Today,  text  of,  464-465  ; 
notes  on,  723-724 

Westminster  Abbey,  burial-place  of 
poets,  7,  33,  91,  264,  286,  308 

We  WiUed  It  Not,  text  of,  568-569  ; 
characterization  of,  566 

What  the  Snake  Saw,  text  of,  561 

When  Earth's  Last  Picture  is 
Painted,  text  of,  500-501  ;   char- 


acterization of,  494  ;  note  on,  725 

Who  is  Silvia,  text  of,  46  ;  note  on, 
601  ;    stanzaic  structure  of,  xlix 

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover, 
text  of,  60-61  ;  note  on  and 
characterization  of,  602  ;  as  a 
simple  lyric,  Ivi 

Wind,  The,  text  of,  475-476 

Winter,  text  of,  45-46  ;  notes  on, 
601 

With  Pipe  and  Flute  {Rondeau), 
text  of,  458  ;  notes  on,  723  ; 
structure  of,  lii 

Wordsworth,  William,  criticism 
of,  157-159  ;  his  "  Theory  of 
Poetry,"  157-160,  654  ;  his 
Lyrical  Ballads,  157-158,  159, 
160,  653-655  ;  life  of,  ISO  ; 
works  of,  159-160;  as  poet 
laureate,  159,  285  ;  as  a  writer  of 
sonnets,  160,  652  ;  mention  of, 
32,  116,  156,  157,  176,  200,  202, 
205,  227,  240,  262,  284,  285,  330, 
345,  353,  354.  422,  462,  463,  466, 
484,  508,  529  ;  his  account  of  the 
composition  of  The  Ancient  Mar- 
iner, 654-655  ;  his  account  of  his 
childhood  experiences  on  which 
the  Immortality  Ode  is  based,  648- 
649.  For  poems,  —  Tintern  Ab- 
bey, Intimations  of  Immortality, 
My  Heart  Leaps  up  When  I  Be- 
hold, The  Solitary  Reaper,  I 
Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud,  The 
Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  and  the 
Sonnets  —  London,  1802,  Com- 
posed upon  Westminster  Bridge, 
It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm 
and  Free,  and  The  World  is  too 
Much  with  Us,  see  titles  under 
this  index 

Wordsworth's  Grave,  text  of,  485- 
491  ;  compared  with  other  great 
English  elegies,  484  ;  content  and 
characterization  of,  484-485  ; 
notes  on,  724-725  ;  stanzaic 
structure  of,  xlviii  ;  as  an  elegy, 
Ivi 

World  is  too  Much  with  Us,  The, 
text  of,  17s  ;  notes  on,  653  ; 
structure  of,  U  0 


INDEX 


749 


World,  The,  From,  text  of,  62 

Writing  on  the  Image,  The,  text  of, 
434-443  ;  characterization  of, 
431  ;  criticism  of,  720  ;  notes  on, 
720 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  account  of,  30  ; 
introduces  the  sonnet  into  Eng- 
land, 30,  38 

WyclifEe,  John,  5 


Yeats,  William  Butler,  mention 
of,  450  ;  criticism  of,  503-504  ; 
relation  to  Irish  Uterature,  452, 
503-504  ;  works  of,  504.  For 
poems,  —  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innis- 
free,  The  Fiddler  of  Dooney,  and 
The  Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan,  see 
titles  under  this  index 


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